>^Xx* 


'  .  \5 

, 


'THE  DAY  BEFORE 
1  YESTERDAY  •  BY 
RICHARD  MIDDLETON 


NEW  YORK 
MITCHELL    KENNERLEY 


(All  rights  reserved.) 


Thanks  are  due  to  the  Editors  of  The  Academy, 

Vanity  Fair,  and   The  Pall  Mall  Gazette  for 

permission  to  reprint  the  greater  part  of  the 

work  in  this  volume. 


20197CO 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

AN    ENCHANTED   PLACE                .  1 

A   RAILWAY   JOURNEY                   ...  .8 

THE    MAGIC   POOL          .                 .                 .                 .  .16 

THE    STORY-TELLER     .                 .                 .                 .  .25 

ADMIRALS   ALL                .                 .                 .                .  .33 

A   REPERTORY   THEATRE             .                 .                 .  .41 

CHILDREN   AND   THE   SPRING  .                 .                 .  .49 

ON   NURSERY   CUPBOARDS          .                 .                 .  .56 

THE   PAT   MAN                                  .                 .                 .  .63 

CAROL    SINGERS               .                  .                  ,                  .  .70 

THE    MAGIC   CARPET     .                 .                 .                 .  .77 

STAGE   CHILDREN          .                 .                 .                 .  .84 

OXFORD   AND   CAMBRIDGE          .                 .                 .  .92 

HAROLD              .                 .                 .                 .                .  .99 

ON    DIGGING    HOLES      .....       105 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

BEAD   CRICKET  .....       112 

THE   BOY   IN   THE    GARDEN       .  .  .  .119 

CHILDREN    AND   THE   SEA          .  .  .  .130 

ON  GOING  TO  BED     .....  137 

STREET  ORGANS         .....  144 

A  SECRET  SOCIETY     .....  152 

THE  PRICE  OP  PEACE            ....  161 

ON  CHILDREN'S  GARDENS      ....  167 

A  DISTINGUISHED  GUEST       ....  174 

ON  PIRATES    ......  182 

THE  FLUTE  PLAYER  .  .  .  .  .189 

THE  WOOL-GATHERER            ....  197 

THE  PERIL  OF  THE  FAIRIES  ....  205 

DRURY  LANE  AND  THE  CHILDREN     .            .            .  212 

CHILDREN'S  DRAMA    .....  217 

CHILDHOOD  IN  RETROSPECT  ....  225 

THE  FOLLY  OF  EDUCATION    .  .  .  .231 

ON  COMMON  SENSE  239 


The  Day   Before  Yesterday 

AN    ENCHANTED    PLACE 

WHEN  elder  brothers  insisted  on  their  rights 
with  undue  harshness,  or  when  the  grown- 
up people  descended  from  Olympus  with  a 
tiresome  tale  of  broken  furniture  and  torn 
clothes,  the  groundlings  of  the  schoolroom 
went  into  retreat.  In  summer-time  this  was 
an  easy  matter ;  once  fairly  escaped  into 
the  garden,  any  climbable  tree  or  shady 
shrub  provided  us  with  a  hermitage.  There 
was  a  hollow  tree-stump  full  of  exciting 
insects  and  pleasant  earthy  smells  that  never 
failed  us,  or,  for  wet  days,  the  tool-shed, 
with  its  armoury  of  weapons  writh  which,  in 
imagination,  we  would  repel  the  attacks  of 
hostile  forces.  But  in  the  game  that  was 
our  childhood,  the  garden  was  out  of  bounds 
in  winter-time,  and  we  had  to  seek  other 

2  » 


2        THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

lairs.  Behind  the  schoolroom  piano  there 
was  a  three-cornered  refuge  that  served  very 
well  for  momentary  sulks  or  sudden  alarms. 
It  was  possible  to  lie  in  ambush  there,  at 
peace  with  our  grievances,  until  life  took 
a  turn  for  the  better  and  tempted  us  forth 
again  into  the  active  world. 

But  when  the  hour  was  tragic  and  we  felt 
the  need  for  a  hiding-place  more  remote, 
we  took  our  troubles,  not  without  a  recurring 
thrill,  to  that  enchanted  place  which  our 
elders  contemptuously  called  the  "mouse- 
cupboard."  This  was  a  low  cupboard  that 
ran  the  whole  length  of  the  big  attic  under 
the  slope  of  the  roof,  and  here  the  aggrieved 
spirit  of  childhood  could  find  solitude  and 
darkness  in  which  to  scheme  deeds  of 
revenge  and  actions  of  a  wonderful  magna- 
nimity turn  by  turn.  Luckily  our  shelter 
did  not  appeal  to  the  utilitarian  minds  of 
the  grown-up  folk  or  to  those  members  of 
the  younger  generation  who  were  beginning 
to  trouble  about  their  clothes.  You  had  to 
enter  it  on  your  hands  and  knees  ;  it  was 
dusty,  and  the  mice  obstinately  disputed  our 
possession.  On  the  inner  walls  the  plaster 


AN  ENCHANTED  PLACE  3 

seemed  to  be  oozing  between  the  rough 
laths,  and  through  little  chinks  and  crannies 
in  the  tiles  overhead  our  eyes  could  see  the 
sky.  But  our  imaginations  soon  altered 
these  trivial  blemishes.  As  a  cave  the 
mouse-cupboard  had  a  very  interesting 
history.  As  soon  as  the  smugglers  had 
left  it,  it  passed  successively  through  the 
hands  of  Aladdin,  Robinson  Crusoe,  Ben 
Gunn,  and  Tom  Sawyer,  and  gave  satisfac- 
tion to  them  all,  and  it  would  no  doubt  have 
had  many  other  tenants  if  some  one  had 
not  discovered  that  it  was  like  the  cabin 
of  a  ship.  From  that  hour  its  position  in 
our  world  was  assured. 

For  sooner  or  later  our  dreams  always 
returned  to  the  sea— not,  be  it  said,  to  the 
polite  and  civilised  sea  of  the  summer 
holidays,  but  to  that  sea  on  whose  foam 
there  open  magic  casements,  and  by  whose 
crimson  tide  the  ships  of  Captain  Avery 
and  Captain  Bartholomew  Roberts  keep 
faithful  tryst  with  the  Flying  Dutchman, 
It  needed  no  very  solid  vessel  to  carry  our 
hearts  to  'those  enchanted  waters — a  paper 
boat  floating  in  a  saucer  served  well  enough 


4        THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

if  the  wind  was  propitious— so  the  fact  that 
our  cabin  lacked  portholes  and  was  of  an 
unusual  shape  did  not  trouble  us.  We  could 
hear  the  water  bubbling  against  the  ship's 
side  in  a  neighbouring  cistern,  and  often 
enough  the  wind  moaned  and  whistled  over- 
head. We  had  our  lockers,  our  sleeping- 
berths,  and  our  cabin-table,  and  at  one  end 
of  the  cabin  was  hung  a  rusty  old  cutlass 
full  of  notches  ;  we  would  have  hated  any 
one  who  had  sought  to  disturb  our  illusion 
that  these  notches  had  been  made  in  battle. 
When  we  were  stowaways  even  the  mice 
were  of  service  to  us,  for  we  gave  them  a 
full  roving  commission  as  savage  rats,  and 
trembled  when  we  heard  them  scampering 
among  the  cargo. 

But  though  we  cut  the  figure  of  an  old 
admiral  out  of  a  Christmas  number,  and 
chased  slavers  with  Kingston  very  happily 
for  a  while,  the  vessel  did  not  really  come 
into  her  own  until  we  turned  pirates  and 
hoisted  the  "  Jolly  Roger  "  off  the  coast  of 
Malabar.  Then,  by  the  light  of  guttering 
candles,  the  mice  witnessed  some  strange 
sights.  If  any  of  us  had  any  money  we 


AN  ENCHANTED  PLACE  5 

would  carouse  terribly,  drinking  ginger-beer 
like  water,  and  afterwards  water  out  of  the 
ginger-beer  bottles,  which  still  retained  a 
faint  magic.  Jam  has  been  eaten  without 
bread  on  board  the  Black  Margaret,  and 
when  we  fell  across  a  merchantman  laden 
with  a  valuable  consignment  of  dried  apple- 
rings—tough  fare  but  interesting— and  the 
savoury  sugar  out  of  candied  peel,  there  were 
boisterous  times  in  her  dim  cabin.  We 
would  sing  what  we  imagined  to  be  sea 
chanties  in  a  doleful  voice,  and  prepare  our 
boarding-pikes  for  the  next  adventure, 
though  we  had  no  clear  idea  what  they  really 
were. 

And  when  we  grew  weary  of  draining  rum- 
kegs  and  counting  the  pieces  of  eight,  our 
life  at  sea  knew  quieter  though  no  less  enjoy- 
able hours.  It  was  pleasant  to  lie  still  after 
the  fever  o,f  battle  and  watch  the  flickering 
candles  with  drowsy  eyes.  Surely  the  last 
word  has  not  been  said  on  the  charm  of 
candle-light ;  we  liked  little  candles— dumpy 
sixteens  they  were  perhaps— and  as  we  lay 
they  would  spread  among  us  their  attendant 
shadows.  Beneath  us  the  water  chuckled 


6        THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

restlessly,  and  sometimes  we  heard  the  feet 
of  the  watch  on  deck  overhead,  and  now 
and  again  the  clanging  of  the  great  bell.  In 
such  an  hour  it  was  not  difficult  to  picture 
the  luminous  tropic  seas  through  which  the 
Black  Margaret  was  making  her  way.  The 
skies  of  irradiant  stars,  the  desert  islands 
like  baskets  of  glowing  flowers,  and  the 
thousand  marvels  of  the  enchanted  ocean— 
we  saw  them  one  and  all. 

It  was  strange  to  leave  this  place  of 
shadows  and  silences  and  hour-long  dreams 
to  play  a  humble  part  in  a  noisy,  gas-lit 
world  that  had  not  known  these  wonders  ; 
but  there  were  consolations.  Elder  brothers 
might  prevail  in  argument  by  methods  that 
seemed  unfair,  but,  beneath  a  baffled  exterior, 
we  could  conceal  a  sublime  pity  for  their 
unadventurous  lives.  Governesses  might 
criticise  our  dusty  clothes  with  wearisome 
eloquence,  but  the  recollection  that  women 
were  not  allowed  on  board  the  Black  Mar- 
garet helped  us  to  remain  conventionally 
polite.  Like  the  gentleman  in  Mr.  Wells's 
story,  we  knew  that  there  were  better  dreams, 
and  the  knowledge  raised  us  for  a  while 


AN  ENCHANTED  PLAGE  7 

above  the  trivial   passions  of  our  environ- 
ment. 

We  were  not  the  only  children  who  had 
found  the  mouse-cupboard  a  place  of 
enchantment,  for  when  we  explored  it  first 
we  discovered  a  handful  of  wooden  beads 
carefully  hidden  in  a  cranny  in  the  wall. 
These  breathed  of  the  nursery  rather  than  of 
the  schoolroom,  and  yet,  perhaps,  those  for- 
gotten children  had  known  what  we  knew, 
and  our  songs  of  the  sea  stirred  only  familiar 
echoes.  It  is  likely  enough  that  to-day 
other  children  have  inherited  our  dreams, 
and  that  other  hands  steer  the  Black  Mar- 
garet under  approving  stars.  If  this  indeed 
be  so,  they  are  in  our  debt,  for  in  one  of  our 
hiding-places  we  left  the  "  Count  of  Monte 
Cristo  "  in  English,  rare  treasure-trove  for 
any  proper  boy.  If  this  should  ever  meet  his 
eyes  he  will  understand. 


A   RAILWAY  JOURNEY 

I  SUPPOSE  that  when  little  boys  made  their 
journeys  by  coach  with  David  Copperfield 
or  Tom  Brown  and  his  pea-shooting  com- 
rades they  did  in  truth  find  adventure  easier 
to  achieve  than  we  who  were  born  in  an 
age  of  railways.  But  though  the  rarer  joys 
of  far  travel  by  road  were  denied  us,  it  did 
not  need  Mr.  Rudyard  Kipling  in  a  didactic 
mood  to  convince  us  that  there  was  plenty 
of  romance  in  railway  journeys  if  you 
approached  them  in  the  right  spirit.  We 
were  as  fond  of  playing  at  trains  as  most 
small  boys,  and  a  stationary  engine  with 
the  light  of  the  furnace  glowing  on  the  grim 
face  of  the  driver  was  a  disquieting  feature 
of  all  my  nightmares.  So  when  the  grown- 
up people  announced  that  one  of  us  was  to 
make  a  long  journey  young  Ulysses  became 
for  the  moment  an  envied  and  enchanted 


A  RAILWAY  JOURNEY  9 

figure.  Our  periodical  excursions  to  London 
were  well  enough  in  their  way  ;  noisy,  jolly 
parties  in  reserved  carriages  to  pantomimes 
and  the  Lord  Mayor's  Show,  or  matter-of- 
fact  visits  to  the  dentist  or  the  shops.  But 
we  all  knew  the  features  of  the  landscape  on 
the  way  to  London  by  heart,  and  it  was  the 
thought  of  voyaging  through  the  unknown 
that  fired  our  lively  blood,  our  hazy  sense 
of  geography  enabling  us  to  believe  that  all 
manner  of  marvels  were  to  be  seen  by  young 
eyes  from  English  railway-carriages.  Also 
we  did  not  feel  that  we  were  real  travellers 
until  we  had  left  all  our  own  grown-ups 
behind,  though  in  such  circumstances  we  had 
to  put  up  with  the  indignity  of  being  con- 
fided to  the  care  of  the  guard.  Until  children 
have  votes  they  will  continue  to  suffer  from 
such  slights  as  this  ! 

One  morning  in  early  spring  I  left  London 
for  the  north.  The  adult  who  saw  me  off 
performed  his  task  on  the  whole  very  well. 
True,  he  introduced  me  to  the  guard,  a 
bearded  and  sinister  man  ;  but,  on  the  other 
hand,  he  realised  the  importance  of  my 
having  a  corner  seat,  and  only  once  or  twice 


10   THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

committed  the  error  of  treating  me  as  if  I 
were  a  parcel.  For  my  part,  I  was  at  pains 
to  conceal  my  excitement  beneath  the 
mannerisms  of  an  experienced  traveller. 
I  put  the  window  up  and  down  several  times 
and  read  aloud  all  the  notices  concerning 
luncheon-baskets  and  danger-signals.  Then 
my  companion  shook  hands  with  me  in  a 
sensible,  manly  fashion,  and  the  train  started. 
I  sat  back  and  examined  my  fellow-travellers, 
and  found  them  rather  disappointing.  There 
were  three  ladies,  manifestly  of  the  aunt  kind, 
and  a  stiff,  well-behaved  little  girl  who  might 
have  stepped  out  of  one  of  my  sister's  story- 
books. She  was  reading  a  book  without 
pictures,  and  when  I  turned  over  the  pages 
of  my  magazines  she  displayed  no  interest 
in  them  whatever.  I  could  never  read  in 
the  train,  so,  with  a  tentative  effort  at  good 
manners,  I  pushed  them  towards  her,  but 
she  shook  her  head  ;  to  show  her  that  I 
did  not  think  this  was  a  snub  I  pulled  out 
my  packet  of  sandwiches  and  had  my  lunch. 
After  that  I  played  with  the  blind,  which 
worked  with  a  spring,  until  one  of  the  aunts 
told  me  not  to  fidget,  although  she  was  no 


A  RAILWAY  JOURNEY  11 

aunt  of  mine.     Then   I   looked   out  of  the 
window,  a  prey  to  voiceless  wrath. 

By  now  we  had  left  London  far  behind, 
and  when  I  had  finished  composing 
imaginary  retorts  to  the  unscrupulous  aunt 
I  was  quite  content  to  see  the  wonders  of 
the  world  flit  by.  There  were  hills  and 
valleys  decked  with  romantic  woods  and  set 
with  fascinating  and  secretive  ponds.  To 
my  eyes  the  hills  were  mountains  and  the 
valleys  perilous  hollows,  the  accustomed  lairs 
of  tremendous  dragons.  I  saw  little  thatched 
houses  wherein  swart  witches  awaited  the 
coming  of  Hansel  and  Gretel,  and  fairy 
children  waved  to  me  from  cottage  gardens 
and  the  gates  of  level-crossings,  greetings 
which  I  dutifully  returned  until  the  aunt 
made  me  pull  up  the  window.  After  a  while 
a  change  came  over  the  scenery.  The  placid 
greens  and  browns  of  the  countryside  blos- 
somed to  gold  and  purple  and  crimson.  I 
saw  a  roc  float  across  the  arching  sky  on 
sluggish  wings,  and  my  eyes  were  delighted 
with  visions  of  deserts  and  mosques  and 
palm-trees.  That  my  fellow-passengers 
would  not  raise  their  heads  to  behold 


12   THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

these  marvels  did  not  trouble  me  ;  I  beat 
on  the  window  with  delight,  until,  like  little 
Billee  in  Thackeray's  ballad,  I  saw  Jerusalem 
and  Madagascar  and  North  and  South 
Amerikee. 

Then  something  surprising  happened.  I 
saw  the  earth  leap  up  and  invade  the  sky 
and  the  sky  drop  down  and  blot  out  the 
earth,  and  I  felt  as  though  my  wings  were 
broken.  Then  the  sides  of  the  carriage 
closed  in  and  squeezed  out  the  door  like  a 
pip  out  of  an  orange,  until  there  was  only 
a  three-cornered  gap  left.  The  air  was  full 
of  dust,  and  I  sneezed  again  and  again,  but 
could  not  find  my  pocket-handkerchief. 
Presently  a  young  man  came  and  lifted 
me  out  through  the  hole,  and  seemed  very 
surprised  that  I  was  not  hurt.  I  realised 
that  there  had  been  an  accident,  for  the  train 
was  broken  into  pieces  and  the  permanent 
way  was  very  untidy.  Close  at  hand  I  saw 
the  little  girl  sitting  on  a  bank,  and  a  man 
kneeling  at  her  feet  taking  her  boots  off. 
I  would  have  liked  to  speak  to  her,  but  I 
remembered  how  she  had  refused  the  offer 
of  my  magazines,  and  was  afraid  she  would 


A  RAILWAY  JOURNEY  13 

snub  me  again.  The  place  was  very  noisy, 
for  people  were  calling  out,  and  there  was 
a  great  sound  of  steam.  I  noticed  that  every- 
body's face  was  very  white,  especially  the 
guard's,  which  made  his  beard  seem  as  black 
as  soot.  The  young  man  took  me  by  the 
hand  and  led  me  along  the  uneven  ground, 
and  there  was  so  much  to  see  that  my  feet 
kept  stumbling  over  things,  and  he  had  to 
hold  me  up.  On  the  way  we  passed  the 
body  of  a  man  lying  with  a  rug  over  his 
head.  I  knew  that  he  was  dead ;  but  I 
had  seen  drunken  men  in  the  streets  lie  like 
that,  and  I  could  not  help  looking  about 
for  the  policeman.  Soon  we  came  to  a  little 
station,  and  the  platform  was  crowded  with 
people  who  would  not  stand  still,  but  walked 
round  and  round  making  noises.  When  I 
climbed  up  on  the  platform  a  woman  caught 
hold  of  me  and  cried  over  me.  One  of 
her  tears  fell  on  my  ear  and  tickled  me  ; 
but  she  held  me  so  tightly  that  I  could  not 
put  up  my  hand  to  rub  it.  Her  breath  was 
hot  on  my  head. 

Then  I  heard  a  detested  voice  say,  "  Poor 
little  boy,  so  tired  ! "  and  I  shuddered  back 


14   THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

into  consciousness  of  the  world  that  was  least 
interesting  of  all  the  worlds  I  knew.  I  need 
not  have  opened  my  eyes  to  be  sure  that  the 
aunts  were  at  their  fell  work  again,  and  that 
the  little  girl's  snub  nose  was  tilted  to  a 
patronising  angel.  Had  I  awakened  a  minute 
later  she,  too,  would  have  joined  in  the 
auntish  chorus  of  compassion  for  my  weak- 
ness. As  it  was,  I  looked  at  her  with  drowsy 
pity,  finding  that  she  was  one  of  those  luck- 
less infants  who  might  as  well  stay  at  home 
for  all  the  fun  they  get  out  of  travelling. 
She  knew  no  better  than  to  scream  when 
the  train  ran  into  a  tunnel ;  what  would 
she  have  done  if  she  had  seen  my  roc? 

The  train  ran  on  and  on,  and  still  I 
throned  it  in  my  corner,  awake  or  dream- 
ing, indisputably  master  of  all  the  things 
that  counted.  The  three  aunts  faded  into 
antimacassars  ;  the  little  girl  endured  her 
uninteresting  life  and  became  an  aunt 
and  an  antimacassar  in  her  turn,  and 
still  I  swung  my  legs  in  my  corner 
seat,  a  boy-errant  in  the  strange  places  of 
the  world.  I  do  not  remember  the  name  of 
the  station  at  which  the  bearded  guard  ulti- 


A  RAILWAY  JOURNEY  15 

mately  brought  me  out  of  my  dreams.  I 
do  remember  standing  stiffly  on  the  plat- 
form and  deciding  that  I  had  been  travelling 
night  and  day  for  three  hundred  years. 
When  I  communicated  this  fact  to  the 
relatives  who  met  me  they  were  strangely 
unimpressed ;  but  I  knew  that  when  I 
returned  home  to  my  brothers  they  would 
display  a  decent  interest  in  the  story  of  my 
wanderings.  After  all,  you  can't  expect 
grown-up  people  to  understand  everything  ! 


THE    MAGIC    POOL 

BEING  born  in  a  sceptical  age,  heirs  of  a 
world  that  certainly  took  its  Darwin  too 
seriously,  we  children  did  not  readily  enlarge 
the  circle  of  our  supernatural  acquaintances. 
There  was  the  old  witch  who  lived  in  the 
two-storied  house  beyond  the  hill,  in  whom 
less  discriminate  eyes  recognised  only  the 
very  respectable  widow  of  an  officer  in  the 
India  Army.  There  was  the  ghost  of 
the  murdered  shepherd-lad  that  haunted  the 
ruined  hut  high  up  on  the  windy  downs  ; 
on  gusty  nights  we  heard  him  piping  shrilly 
to  his  phantom  flocks,  and  sometimes  their 
little  bells  seemed  to  greet  us  from  the  chorus 
of  the  storm.  There  was  a  little  drowned 
kitten  who  mewed  to  us  from  the  shadows  of 
the  rain-water  cistern,  and  a  small  boy  who 
cried  about  the  garden  in  the  autumn  because 
he  could  not  find  his  ball  among  the  dead 

16 


THE  MAGIC  POOL  17 

leaves.  We  had  all  heard  the  three  last, 
and  most  of  us  had  seen  them  at  twilight- 
time,  when  ghosts  pluck  up  their  poor  thin 
courage  and  take  their  walks  abroad .  As 
for  the  witch,  we  relied  on  our  intuitions 
and  gave  her  house  a  wide  berth. 

The  credentials  of  these  four  unquiet 
spirits  having  been  examined  and  found 
satisfactory,  schoolroom  opinion  was  against 
any  addition  to  their  number.  We  would 
not  accept  my  younger  brother's  murderer 
carrying  a  sack  or  my  little  sister's  pro- 
cession of  special  tortoises,  though  we 
acknowledged  that  there  was  merit  in  them, 
regarded  merely  as  artistic  conceptions. 
Perhaps,  subconsciously,  we  realised  that  to 
make  the  supernatural  commonplace  is  also 
to  make  it  ineffective,  and  that  there  is  no 
dignity  in  a  life  jostled  by  spooks.  At  all 
events,  we  relied  for  our  periodical  panics 
on  those  which  had  received  the  official 
sanction,  and  on  the  terrifying  monsters  our 
imaginations  had  drawn  from  real  life — 
burglars,  lunatics,  and  drunken  men. 

It  was  therefore  noteworthy  that  as  soon 
as   we   discovered   the    pool    in    Hayward's 

3 


18   THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

Wood  we  were  all  agreed  that  it  was  no 
ordinary  sheet  of  water,  but  one  of  those 
enchanted  pools  which  draw  their  waters 
from  magic  sources  and  are  capable  of 
throwing  spells  over  mortals  who  approach 
them1  unwarily.  And  yet,  though  we  felt  in- 
stinctively that  there  was  something  queer 
about  it,  the  pool  in  itself  was  not  unattrac- 
tive. Held,  as  it  were,  in  a  cup  in  the  heart 
of  the  wood,  it  still  contrived  to  win  its 
share  of  sunshine  through  the  branches 
above.  On  its  surface  the  water-boatmen 
were  ferrying  cheerfully  to  and  fro,  while 
overhead  the  dragon -flies  drove  their  gaudy 
monoplanes  in  ceaseless  competition.  All 
about  the  woods  were  gay  with  wild  garlic 
and  the  little  purple  gloves  that  Nature  pro- 
vides for  foxes,  and  through  a  natural  alley 
we  could  see  a  golden  meadow,  where  cups 
of  cool  butter  were  spread  with  lavish 
generosity  to  quench  the  parched  tongues 
of  bees.  The  mud  that  squelched  under  our 
feet  as  we  stood  on  the  brink  seemed  to 
be  good,  honest  mud,  and  gave  our  boots 
the  proper  holiday  finish.  Nevertheless,  we 
stared  silently  at  the  waters,  half -expecting 


THE  MAGIC  POOL  19 

to  see  them  thicken  and  part  in  brown  foam, 
to  allow  some  red-mouthed  prehistoric 
monster  to  rise  oozily  from  his  resting- 
place  in  the  mud — some  such  mammoth  as 
we  had  seen  carved  in  stone  on  the  borders 
of  the  lake  at  the  Crystal  Palace.  But  no 
monster  appeared  ;  only  a  rabbit  sprang  up 
suddenly  on  the  far  side  of  the  pool,  and, 
seeing  we  had  no  gun  and  no  dog,  limped 
off  in  a  leisurely  manner  to  the  warren. 

After  a  while  we  grew  weary  of  our  doubts, 
and,  tacitly  agreeing  to  pretend  that  it  was 
only  an  ordinary  pond,  fell  to  paddling  in 
the  shallows  with  a  good  heart.  The  mud 
slid  warmly  through  our  toes,  and  the  water 
lay  round  our  calves  like  a  tight  string,  but 
we  were  not  changed,  as  we  had  half  antici- 
pated, into  tadpoles  or  water-lilies.  It  was 
apparent  that  the  magic  was  of  a  subtler 
kind  than  this,  and  we  splashed  about  cheer- 
fully until  the  inevitable  happened  and  one 
of  us  went  in  up  to  his  waist.  Then  we  sat 
on  the  bank  nursing  our  wet  feet,  and  laugh- 
ing at  the  victim  as  he  ruefully  wrung  out 
his  clothes.  We  were  all  of  a  nautical  turn 
of  mind,  and  we  agreed  that  the  pond  would 


20   THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

serve  very  well  for  minor  naval  engagements, 
though  it  was  too  sheltered  to  provide  enough 
wind  for  sailing-ships.  Still,  here  we  should 
at  all  events  be  secure  from  such  a  disaster 
as  had  recently  overtaken  my  troopship 
Dauntless,  which  was  cruising  in  calm 
weather  on  Pickhurst  Pond  when  all  of 
a  sudden  "  a  land  breeze  shook  the  shrouds 
and  she  was  overset,"  and  four-and -twenty 
good  soldiers  sank  to  the  bottom  like  lead, 
which  they  were.  Regarded  merely  as  an 
attractive  piece  of  water,  the  pool  could  not 
fail  to  be  of  service  in  our  adventurous  lives. 
But  all  the  time  we  felt  in  our  hearts  that 
it  was  something  more,  though  we  would 
have  found  it  hard  to  give  reasons  for  our 
conviction,  for  the  pool  seemed  very  well 
able  to  keep  the  secret  of  its  enchantment. 
We  did  not  even  know  whether  it  was  the 
instrument  of  black  magic  or  of  white, 
whether  its  influence  on  human  beings 
was  amiable  or  malevolent.  We  only  knew 
that  it  was  under  a  spell,  that  beneath  its 
reticent  surface,  that  showed  nothing  more 
than  the  reflection  of  our  own  inquiring 
faces,  lay  hidden  some  part  of  that  especial 


THE  MAGIC  POOL  21 

magic  that  makes  the  dreams  of  young  people 
as  real  as  life,  and  contradicts  the  unlovely 
generalisations  of  disillusioned  adults.  All 
that  was  necessary  was  to  find  the  key  that 
would  unlock  the  golden  gates. 

The  brother  who  was  nearest  to  me  in 
terms  of  years  found  it  two  days  later,  and 
came  to  me  breathlessly  with  the  news.  He 
had  been  reading  a  book  of  fairy  stories, 
and  had  come  upon  the  description  of  just 
such  a  magic  pool  as  ours,  even  to  the  rabbit 
— who  was,  it  seemed,  a  kind  of  advance- 
agent  to  the  spirit  of  the  pool.  The  rules 
were  very  clear.  All  you  had  to  do  was 
to  go  to  the  pool  at  midnight  and  wish  aloud, 
and  your  wish  would  be  granted.  If  you 
were  greedy  enough  to  wish  more  than  once, 
you  would  be  changed  into  a  goldfish.  My 
brother  thought  it  would  be  rather  jolly  to 
be  a  goldfish,  and  so  for  a  while  did  I  ; 
but  on  reflection  we  decided  that  if  the  one 
wish  were  carefully  expended  it  might  be 
more  amusing  to  remain  a  boy. 

It  says  something  for  our  spirit  of  adven- 
ture that  we  did  not  even  discuss  the 
advisability  of  undertaking  this  lawless  ex- 


22      THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

pedition.  We  were  more  engaged  in 
rejoicing  in  anticipation  over  the  discom- 
fiture of  our  elder  brothers  and  settling  the 
difficult  problem  of  what  we  should  wish. 
My  brother  was  all  for  seven-league  boots 
and  invisible  caps  and  other  conjuring  tricks . 
of  a  faery  character  ;  I  had  set  my  heart 
on  money,  more  sovereigns  than  we  could 
carry,  and  I  finally  brought  my  brother 
round  to  my  point  of  view.  After  all,  he 
could  always  buy  the  other  things  if  he  had 
enough  money.  It  was  agreed  that  he  should 
wind  up  his  birthday  watch  and  that  we 
should  only  pretend  to  go  to  bed,  as  we 
should  have  to  start  at  half -past  eleven. 
When  planned  by  daylight  the  whole  thing 
seemed  absurdly  easy. 

We  had  no  difficulty  in  getting  out  of  the 
house  when  the  time  came,  simply  because 
this  was  not  the  sort  of  thing  that  the  grown- 
up people  expected  us  to  do,  but  we  found 
the  world  strangely  altered.  The  familiar 
lanes  had  become  rivers  of  changing 
shadows,  the  hedgerows  were  ambuscades 
of  robbers,  the  tall  trees  were  affronted 
giants.  Fortunately,  we  were  on  very  good 


THE  MAGIC  POOL  23 

terms  with  the  moon  at  the  time,  so  when 
she  made  her  periodical  appearances  from 
behind  the  scudding  clouds  she  came  as  a 
friend.  Nevertheless,  when  my  hand  acci- 
dentally touched  my  brother's  in  the  dark 
it  stayed  there,  and  we  were  glad  to  walk 
along  hand  in  hand,  a  situation  which  we 
would  have  thought  deplorable  for  two 
fellows  of  our  years  by  day.  It  seemed  to 
me  that  my  brother  was  breathing  shortly 
and  noisily  as  if  he  were  excited,  but 
presently  the  surprising  thought  came  to  me 
that  it  might  be  my  own  breathing  that  I 
heard.  As  we  drew  near  to  Hay  ward's  Wood 
the  moon  retired  behind  a  cloud,  and  stayed 
there.  This  was  hardly  friendly  of  her,  for 
the  wood  was  terribly  dark,  and  the  noise 
of  our  own  stumblings  made  us  pause  in 
alarm  again  and  again.  When  we  stood  still 
and  listened  all  the  trees  seemed  to  be  saying 
"  Hush  ! " 

Somehow  we  reached  the  pool  at  last,  and 
stayed  our  steps  on  the  bank  expectantly. 
At  first  we  could  see  nothing  but  shadows, 
but,  after  a  while,  we  discovered  that  it  was 
full  of  drowned  stars,  a  little  pale  as  though 


24   THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

the  water  had  extinguished  some  of  their 
fire.  And  then,  as  we  wondered  at  this,  the 
moon  shone  through  the  branches  overhead 
and  lit  the  wood  with  a  cool  and  mysterious 
radiance  that  reminded  me  oddly  of  the 
transformation  scene  in  our  last  pantomime. 
My  brother  pulled  his  watch  out  of  his 
pocket,  but  his  hand  shook  so  that  he  could 
hardly  tell  the  time.  "  Five  minutes  more," 
he  whispered  hoarsely.  I  tried  to  answer 
him,  and  found  that  I  could  not  speak. 

And  then,  as  we  waited  breathlessly,  we 
heard  a  noise  among  the  undergrowth  on 
the  other  side  of  the  pool — a  noise,  it  seemed, 
of  footsteps,  that  grew  louder  and  louder  in 
our  excited  ears,  till  it  was  as  if  all  the 
armies  of  the  world  were  tramping  through 
the  wood.  And  then  .  .  .  and  then  .  .  . 

When  we  stopped  to  get  our  breath  half- 
way home  we  first  discovered  that  neither 
of  us  had  had  presence  of  mind  enough  to 
wish.  But  we  knew  that  there  was  no  going 
back.  We  had  had  our  chance,  and  missed 
it.  But,  even  now,  I  do  not  doubt  that  it 
was  a  magic  pool. 


THE    STORY-TELLER 

HE  changed  with  the  seasons,  and,  like  the 
seasons,  was  welcome  in  every  mood.  In 
spring  he  was  forlorn  and  passionate  in 
turn  ;  now  fiercely  eloquent,  now  tuneful 
with  those  little  cheerful  songs  that  seem  in 
terms  of  human  emotion  to  be  the  saddest 
of  all.  In  summer  he  dreamed  in  sensuous 
and  unambitious  idleness,  gladly  conscious 
of  the  sunshine  and  warm  winds  and  flower- 
smells,  and  using  only  languorous  and  gentle 
words.  In  autumn,  with  the  dead  leaves  of 
the  world  about  his  feet,  he  became  strangely 
hopeful  and  generous  of  glad  promises  of 
adventure  and  conquest.  It  seemed  as 
though  he  found  it  easier  to  triumph  when 
Nature  had  abdicated  her  jealous  throne. 
But  it  was  in  the  winter -time  when  he  came 
into  his  own  kingdom,  and  mastered  his  en- 
vironment and  his  passions  to  make  the  most 


26   THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

joyful  songs.  Then  he  would  lie  at  full 
length  on  the  hearthrug,  and  we  children, 
sitting  in  a  rapt  circle,  fantastically  lit  by 
the  fire,  would  listen  to  his  stories,  and  know 
that  they  were  the  authentic  wisdom. 

It  was  in  vain  that  the  grown-ups  warned 
us  against  the  fascinations  of  his  society, 
telling  us  that  dreamers  came  to  no  good 
end  in  a  practical  world.  As  well  might 
the  townsfolk  of  Hamelin,  in  Brunswick, 
have  ordered  their  children  to  turn  a  deaf 
ear  to  the  tune  of  the  Pied  Piper.  We  had 
studied  life  from  a  practical  point  of  view 
between  our  games,  and  found  it  unsatisfy- 
ing ;  this  man  brought  us  something  in- 
finitely more  desirable.  He  would  come 
stepping  with  delicate  feet,  fearful  of 
trampling  on  our  own  tender  dreams,  and 
he  would  tell  us  the  enchanted  stories  that 
we  had  not  heard  since  we  were  born.  He 
told  us  the  meaning  of  the  stars  and  the 
significance  of  the  sun  and  moon ;  and, 
listening  to  him,  we  remembered  that  we 
had  known  it  all  once  before  in  another 
place.  Sometimes  even  we  would  remind 
him  of  some  trivial  incident  that  he  had 


THE  STORY-TELLER  27 

forgotten,  and  then  he  would  look  at  us  oddly 
and  murmur  sadly  that  he  was  getting  very 
old.  When  the  stories  were  over,  and  all 
the  room  was  still  ringing  with  beautiful 
echoes,  he  would  stand  erect  and  ask  us 
fiercely  whether  we  saw  any  straws  in  his 
hair.  We  would  climb  up  him  to  look  (for 
he  was  very  tall),  and  when  we  told  him 
that  we  could  not  find  any  he  would  say  : 
"  The  day  you  see  them  there  will  be  no 
more  stories."  We  knew  what  the  stories 
were  worth  to  us,  so  we  were  always  afraid 
of  looking  at  his  head  for  fear  that  we  should 
see  the  straws  and  all  our  gladdest  hours 
should  be  finished. 

His  voice  was  all  the  music  extant,  and 
it  was  only  by  recalling  it  that  our  young 
ears  could  find  that  there  was  beauty  in 
fine  singing  and  melodiousness  in  the  chaunt 
of  birds.  Yet  when  his  words  were  eloquent 
we  forgot  the  voice  and  the  speaker,  content 
to  sacrifice  our  critical  individualities  to  his 
inspiration  till  we  were  no  more  than  dim 
and  silent  figures  in  the  background  of  his 
tale.  It  was  only  in  winter-time  that  he 
achieved  this  supreme  illusion  ;  perhaps  the 


28      THE  DAY  BEFORE   YESTERDAY 

firelight  helped  him,  and  the  chill  shadows 
of  the  world.  In  the  summer  his  stories 
had  the  witchery  of  dreams  ;  their  realism 
startled  us,  and  yet  we  knew  that  they  were 
not  real.  After  listening  to  them  through  a 
hot  afternoon  we  would  stretch  back  into 
consciousness,  as  though  we  had  been  asleep  ; 
his  drowsy  fancies  lulled  our  personalities, 
but  did  not  conquer  them.  The  winter  magic 
was  of  a  rarer  kind.  Then  even  his  silences 
became  significant,  for  he  brought  us  to 
so  close  an  intimacy  with  his  mind  that  his 
very  thoughts  seemed  like  words. 

It  is  idle  to  expect  a  child  to  believe  that 
every  grown-up  person  was  a  child  once 
upon  a  time,  for  it  is  not  credible  that  they 
could  have  forgotten  so  much.  But  this  man 
was  a  child  both  in  feeling  and  in  under- 
standing. He  knew  the  incidents  that  per- 
plexed us  in  those  nursery  legends  that  have 
become  classics,  and  sometimes  it  was  his 
pleasure  to  tell  them  to  us  again,  having 
regard  to  our  wakeful  sympathies.  He  was 
the  friend  of  all  the  poor,  lost  creatures  of 
romance— the  giants  whose  humiliating  lot 
it  was  to  be  defeated  by  any  stripling  lad, 


THE  STORY-TELLER  29 

the  dragons  whose  flaming  strength  was  a 
derision  when  opposed  to  virtue  in  armour. 
He  shared  our  pity  for  Antaeus  and  Caliban 
and  Goliath  of  Gath,  and  even  treated  sor- 
cerers and  wicked  kings  with  reasonable 
humanity.  Somehow,  though  we  felt  that 
it  was  wicked,  we  could  not  help  being 
sorry  for  people  when  they  were  punished 
very  severely.  The  very  ease  with  which 
giants  could  be  outwitted  suggested  that  the 
great  simple  fellows  might  prove  amiable 
enough  if  they  were  kindly  treated,  while  it 
was  always  possible  that  dragons  might  turn 
out  to  be  bewitched  princes,  if  only  the 
beautiful  princesses  would  kiss  them  instead 
of  sending  heroes  to  kill  them  unfairly,  with- 
out giving  them  an  opportunity  of  explaining 
their  motives.  Our  story-teller  understood 
our  scruples  and  sympathised  with  them,  and 
in  his  versions  every  one  had  a  chance, 
whether  they  were  heroes  or  no.  Even  the 
best  children  are  sometimes  cruel,  but  they 
are  never  half  so  pitiless  as  the  writers  of 
fairy -stories. 

But  better  than  any  fairy-stories  were  the 
stories   that   he   told   us   of  our  own   lives, 


30   THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

which  under  his  touch  became  the  wonderful 
adventures  which  they  really  were.  He 
showed  us  that  it  was  marvellous  to  get  out 
of  bed  in  the  morning,  and  marvellous  to  get 
into  bed  at  night.  He  made  us  realise  the 
imaginative  value  of  common  things,  and 
the  fun  that  could  be  derived  even  from  the 
performance  of  duties,  by  aid  of  a  little 
make-believe.  The  grown-up  folk  would 
probably  have  derided  his  system,  but  he 
made  us  tolerate  our  lessons,  and  endure 
the  pangs  of  toothache  with  some  degree 
of  fortitude.  He  had  a  short  way  with  the 
ugly  bogles  with  which  thoughtless  nurses 
and  chance  echoes  from  the  horrors  columns 
of  newspapers  had  peopled  the  shadows  of 
our  life.  We  were  no  longer  afraid  of  the 
dark  when  he  had  told  us  how  friendly  it 
could  be  to  the  distressed.  Hitherto  we  had 
vainly  sought  to  find  the  colours  and  sounds 
of  romance  in  life,  and,  failing,  had  been 
tempted  to  sum  up  the  whole  business  as 
tedious.  After  he  had  shown  us  how  to  do 
it,  it  was  easy  to  see  that  life  itself  was 
a  story  as  romantic  as  we  cared  to  make  it. 
Our  daily  official  walks  became  gallant  ex- 


THE  STORY-TELLER  31 

peditions,    and    we    approached    arithmetic 
with  a  flaming  sword. 

Can  any  childhood  ever  have  known  a 
greater  wizard  than  this?  And  yet  since 
that  state  does  not  endure  for  ever,  it  must 
surely  have  happened  to  us  to  seek  for  straws 
in  his  towering  head  once  too  often,  had  not 
death  taken  our  kindly  enchanter  from  our 
company,  and  thus  spared  us  the  bitter  dis- 
covery that  the  one  man  who  reconciled  us 
to  life  was  considered  rather  more  than 
eccentric  by  an  obtuse  world.  It  is  true 
that  we  noticed  that  the  grown-up  people 
were  apt  to  treat  him  sometimes  as  if  he 
were  one  Of  us,  but  we  felt  that  he  merited 
this  distinction,  and  did  not  find  it  strange. 
Nor  did  we  wonder  that  he  should  tell  stories 
aloud  to  himself  lacking  a  wider  audience, 
for  we  knew  that  if  we  had  the  power  we 
should  tell  such  stories  to  ourselves  all  day 
long.  We  did  not  only  fail  to  realise  that 
he  was  mad  ;  we  knew  that  he  was  the  only 
reasonable  creature  of  adult  years  who  ever 
came  near  us.  He  understood  us  and  paid 
us  the  supreme  compliment  of  allowing  us 
to  understand  him.  The  world  called  him 


32   THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

fantastic  for  actions  that  convinced  us  that 
he  was  wise,  and,  thanks  to  a  fate  that 
seemed  at  the  time  insensately  cruel,  the 
spell  was  never  broken. 


ADMIRALS    ALL 

WHEN  the  Christmas  holidays  are  over,  and 
pantomimes  and  parties  are  cleared  away, 
there  is  usually  a  marked  revival  in  a  sport 
that  has  languished  during  those  exciting 
weeks.  A  child  who  wished  to  play  at 
boats,  when  the  air  was  full  of  the  smell 
of  tangerine  oranges  and  the  glamour  of  the 
footlights,  would  not  be  tolerated  in  any 
decent  schoolroom.  But  with  the  re- 
appearance of  lessons  there  comes  a  sudden 
demand  for  walnut-shells  and  sealing-wax, 
and  bath-night,  a  thing  undesirable  while 
the  house  is  noisy  with  new  tunes,  becomes 
the  cause  of  rivalry  and  passionate  argu- 
ment. 

So  at  least  it  fell  in  the  days  when  child- 
hood was  more  than  the  kernel  of  an  article. 
The  first  symptom  of  the  new  movement  was 
an  eager  interest  in  dessert.  We  would  entreat 

4  33 


34   THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

the  Olympians  to  forego  nut-crackers  and  to 
use  our  new  Christmas  pocket-knives  for  the 
purpose  of  opening  their  walnuts,  and  we 
would  regard  the  results  with  a  keen  and 
professional  eye.  Were  they  destined  to  be 
clippers,  yachts  notable  in  history,  or  mere 
utilitarian  tubs  to  be  laden  with  tipsy  tin- 
soldiers  and  sunk  ignominiously  by  brass 
cannon?  We  were  all  naval  experts  and 
our  judgments  were  not  often  wrong.  But 
even  if  a  walnut-shell  had  the  right  racing 
lines,  there  remained  the  delicate  operation 
of  stepping  the  mast.  The  "  blob "  of 
sealing-wax  had  to  be  dropped  in  exactly 
the  right  place,  and  the  whittled  safety- 
match  that  served  for  a  mast  must  be  truly 
perpendicular  or  the  craft  would  be  lop- 
sided. The  paper  sail  was  as  large  as  safety 
would  permit. 

There  followed  regattas  in  a  basin  filled 
to  the  trim  with  water.  The  yachts  raced 
from  one  side  to  the  other,  and  some  one, 
assumed  neutral,  blew  with  a  level  breath 
across  the  flood  to  supply  the  necessary  wind. 
The  reward  of  victory  was  a  little  coloured 
flag  that  was  gummed  to  the  sail  of  the 


ADMIRALS  ALL  35 

successful  boat.  On  a  memorable  day  my 
Swallow  beat  a  hitherto  undefeated  cham- 
pion in  my  eldest  brother's  Irene,  a  result 
the  more  astonishing  that  Irene's  owner  was 
himself  filling  the  role  of  ^Eolus.  I  am  glad 
to  think  it  was  Irene  that  was  flung  out  of 
the  window. 

Apart  from  these  classic  contests  there 
were  secret  trials  and  naval  reviews  in 
private  waters,  and  that  intimate  kind  of 
navigation  that  took  place  in  one's  bath. 
This  last  was  spiced  with  an  agreeable 
element  of  risk,  for  a  rash  movement  would 
send  the  whole  fleet  to  the  bottom  of  the 
sea  ;  but  at  the  same  time  in  no  other  way 
could  an  admiral  have  the  elements  so  much 
under  his  control.  Like  Neptune,  he  could 
raise  a  storm  at  will,  and  when  the  ships  had 
battled  gallantly  against  terrible  waves  and 
icebergs  of  patent  soap,  a  pair  of  pink  feet 
would  rise  above  the  surface  of  the  ocean, 
and  the  Fortunate  Islands  would  greet  the 
tired  eyes  of  the  mariners.  It  is  a  fine 
thing  to  sail  about  the  world,  but  it  is  very 
good  to  be  at  home. 

Later  on,  as  the  weather  grew  warmer,  we 


36      THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

indulged    in   more   adventurous,    and    let   it 
be  admitted,  more  enjoyable,  sport.    Walnut 
boats   and   paper  junks  ballasted  with  shot 
might  be  well  enough  for  the  cold  months 
or   wet   afternoons,   but   when   the  summer 
called  us  out  to  play,  our  ambitious  hearts 
desired   weightier   craft   than   these.      Then 
the  yachts  that  uncles  had  given  us,  which 
had  been  cruising  peacefully  on  the  playroom 
floor  during  the  indoor  weeks,  were  brought 
out    and    considered    in    their   new    aspect. 
There  was  always  something  at  once  thrilling 
and  disappointing  about  these  stately  ships. 
The  height  of  their  masts,  the  intricacy  of 
their  rigging,  and  the  little  lines  that  marked 
the    planks    of    their    deck,    filled    us    with 
pride,  and  made  us  seek  the  nearest  pond 
with   quick,   elated  steps.     But  these  things 
might  be  as  well  admired  indoors,  and  some- 
how these  boats  never  sailed  as  well  on  any 
wakeful  pond  as  they  did  on  the  waters  of 
our    dreams.      There    they    were    for    ever 
tossing   on   the   crests   of  enormous   waves, 
and   all  night  long  their  great  masts  went 
crashing  by  the  board  ;    but  on   Pickhurst 
Pond  they  behaved  with  a  staid  monotony, 


ADMIRALS  ALL  37 

and  while  we  and  the  boats  of  our  hands  had 
as  many  moods  as  the  spring,  these  official 
craft  were  content  to  perform  their  business 
of  sailing  with  the  conscientious  precision 
of  grown-up  persons. 

There  was  more  to  be  said  for  the  modest 
sort  of  boat  you  would  buy  for  sixpence 
or  a  shilling.  They  had  a  useless  mast  and 
sail  (the  boat  capsized  if  you  set  it),  seats 
that  were  annoying  but  easily  removed,  and 
sometimes,  as  a  crowning  piece  of  Philis- 
tinism, oars  !  We  would  have  scorned  to 
give  a  moment's  consideration  to  a  rowing 
boat  at  any  time.  We  wanted  only  craft 
that  were  fit  to  cruise  with  equal  adroitness 
on  boundless  oceans  and  unhealthy  tropic 
rivers,  and,  lacking  a  hold,  where  should 
we  keep  the  rum  and  the  pieces  of  eight? 
But  if  you  threw  away  everything  but  the 
bare  hull,  and  painted  that  black,  you  had 
a  very  sound  basis  for  sensible  boat- 
building. A  tin  railway  carriage  would  make 
a  cabin,  a  wooden  brick  the  quarter-deck, 
and  if  you  could  find  some  lead  for  the 
keel  you  might  give  the  vessel  a  real  mast 
with  which  to  strike  the  southern  stars. 


38   THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

But,  after  all,  the  best  boats  were  the  boats 
we  built  entirely  ourselves.  Our  favourite 
materials  were  corks,  empty  match-boxes,  and 
such  wood  as  lies  within  the  scope  of  a 
pocket-knife,  and  we  would  drive  tintacks 
into  the  craft  until  it  looked  like  a  nursery 
cake,  crowned  with  burnt  currants.  The 
resulting  ships  varied  as  to  shape  and  size, 
but  could  be  trusted  to  conduct  themselves 
in  the  water  with  a  charming  eccentricity. 
Sometimes  they  seemed  to  skim  the  waves 
like  birds,  sometimes  the  water  leaped  through 
them  with  a  laugh,  and  they  sank  down  to 
join  the  minnows  and  the  pebbles  at  the 
bottom  of  the  stream.  In  the  latter  case 
the  owner  would  lie  flat  on  the  bank  with  a 
sharp  stone  pressing  into  his  chest,  and  feel 
for  the  lost  craft  in  the  cold,  slippery  waters  ; 
for  the  rest  of  the  morning  his  shirt-sleeve 
would  cling  damply  to  his  skin,  while  the 
assembled  experts  considered  the  failure  and 
made  acute  suggestions. 

The  stream — we  called  it  a  river— on  which 
we  sailed  these  ships  passed  in  its  cheerful 
course  through  an  iron  pipe,  and  sometimes 
a  vessel  that  had  disappeared  merrily  under 


ADMIRALS  ALL  39 

the  dark  arch  would  be  seen  no  more  of 
our  eyes,  though  we  waited  at  the  other 
end  of  the  passage  perilous  until  our  bodies 
grew  chill  in  our  sailor  suits,  and  the  mists 
came  rolling  up  from  the  water-meadows. 
It  was  easy  to  crouch  down  by  the  mouth 
of  the  pipe,  and  hear  the  water  lap-lapping 
in  the  dark  against  the  echoing  sides  of  the 
tunnel,  but  our  ears  could  tell  us  nothing, 
and  as  we  went  home  we  would  speculate  in 
whispers  as  to  the  fate  of  the  missing  vessel. 
Had  it  foundered  on  some  treacherous  rock, 
or  was  there  some  mysterious  outlet  un- 
known to  man,  through  which  it  had  escaped 
us?  Even  while  we  spoke  it  might  be 
nodding  on  merrily  towards  the  night  and 
the  stars,  through  a  new,  strange  country 
that  no  one  could  find  in  daylight  fashion. 

In  truth,  there  was  no  game  like  this, 
appealing  alike  to  mind  and  body,  and 
fraught  with  surprises  and  enchanting  side- 
issues  of  play.  We  might  launch  our  vessel 
at  dawn  for  Babylon,  and  night  would  find 
it  dreaming  by  some  South  Sea  isle,  or  lying 
a  shattered  wreck  on  the  coast  of  Brazil. 

Doubtless  to  the  grown-up  observer,  who 


40   THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

had  seen  the  great  sea  dotted  with  little 
ships,  our  gutter  mishaps  and  adventures  on 
puddles  were  of  small  importance.  But  as 
becomes  the  children  of  an  island  race,  we 
played  this  game  with  a  strange  earnestness, 
and  though  our  boats  were  small,  we  knew 
that  they  were  large  enough  for  little  boys 
to  go  roaming  in  through  the  long  day. 
And  that  was  all  that  mattered. 


A    REPERTORY    THEATRE 

LIKE  most  great  movements  in  art,  it  had 
but  a  modest  beginning.  On  a  memorable 
day  one  of  my  brothers  was  looking  in  the 
window  of  a  little  toy -shop  when  he  dis- 
covered some  of  those  fascinating  sheets  of 
characters  to  which  Stevenson  has  devoted 
a  charming  essay.  He  happened  to  have 
money  in  his  pocket  it  was  indeed  a  memor- 
able day),  and  he  brought  home  his  treasure- 
trove  with  the  air  of  a  capitalist  who  has 
made  a  wise  investment.  Schoolroom 
society  approved  his  enterprise  with  enthu- 
siasm. We  knew  nothing  about  "The  Wood- 
man's Hut,"  the  play  to  which  the  characters 
in  question  belonged ;  it  was  enough  for 
us  that  these  figures  of  men  and  women 
were  clearly  messengers  from  the  Land  of 
Romance,  and  their  mysterious  attitudes  only 
added  to  the  interest  with  which  we  regarded 


42   THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

them.  We  got  out  our  paint-boxes,  and,  as 
unconsciously  we  were  all  Post-Impression- 
ists, we  soon  made  them  more  mysterious 
still. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  Stevenson  re- 
mained satisfied  with  this,  which  might  be 
regarded  as  the  costumier's  work  of  the 
model  theatre,  but  we  were  more  ambitious. 
Our  first  theatre  was  a  small  packing-case 
without  any  sides,  and  in  this  our  characters, 
mounted  on  cardboard  and  supplied  with 
firewood  supports,  were  quite  contented  to 
display  their  red  legs  and  green  bodies.  Our 
scenery  was  indicated  rather  than  drawn  on 
brown  paper  with  coloured  chalks,  and 
would,  I  think,  have  pleased  Mr.  Gordon 
Craig.  Two  Christmas-tree  candles  served 
for  footlights,  and,  though  we  had  no  book 
of  the  words,  we  made  them  up  as  we  went 
along,  and  did  very  well.  It  was  strange 
how  great  a  measure  of  illusion  we  achieved, 
although  we  ourselves  moved  the  puppets 
and  spoke  their  lines.  The  candles  threw 
queer  shadows  across  our  faces,  and  it 
seemed  as  though  deeper  voices  than  ours 
echoed  in  the  room.  We  were  always  being 


A  REPERTORY  THEATRE  43 

astonished  by  the  eerie  products  of  our  own 
imagination  when  we  were  merely  trying  to 
amuse  ourselves ;  and  the  effect  of  our 
dramatic  efforts  was  quite  remote  from  any- 
thing that  we  had  intended.  I  understand 
that  older  dramatists  sometimes  experience 
the  same  phenomenon. 

Our  activities  could  not  long  escape  the 
criticism  of  the  grown-up  people  ;  but  rather 
to  our  surprise,  for  candles  were  quite  illicit 
playthings,  they  contented  themselves  with 
a  general  caution  as  to  the  perils  of  fire, 
and  a  particular  injunction  concerning  the 
dropping  of  candle-grease  on  the  tablecloth. 
So  we  played  with  our  theatre  till  Christ- 
mas, by  which  time  the  members  of  our 
stock  company  were  more  than  a  little 
battered  and  weary  at  the  knees.  Then  there 
came  a  surprise.  Included  in  the  number 
of  our  presents  were  a  little  theatre  with 
a  real  curtain  that  went  up  and  down,  and 
materials  for  three  complete  productions. 
This  time  we  had  not  only  the  characters, 
but  the  books  of  words  and  scenery  as  well, 
and  we  prepared  to  do  things  on  an  unpre- 
cedented scale.  As  a  result,  after  extraordi- 


44   THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

nary  labour  in  the  scenic  and  costume 
departments,  we  were  able  to  produce,  on 
three  successive  nights,  "  Paul  Clifford," 
"The  Corsican  Brothers,"  and  "The  Miller 
and  his  Men."  The  repertory  theatre  was 
fairly  under  way. 

First-nights  were  really  thrilling  in  those 
days.  The  dignified  deportment  of  our 
actors,  as  yet  unspoiled  by  success,  roused 
the  audience  to  enthusiasm,  and  we  did  not 
weary  of  admiring  simple  stage  effects  that 
would  have  moved  us  to  scornful  laughter  in 
after-days.  Yet  even  in  these  early  produc- 
tions there  lurked  the  seeds  of  artistic  dis- 
ruption. Already  our  appreciation  of  the 
gallant  bearing  of  Paul  Clifford  passed  all 
reasonable  bounds,  and  threatened  to  develop 
into  that  hero-worship  that  proves  fatal  to 
the  talents  of  any  actor.  Already  we  had 
an  unwholesome  craving  for  excessive 
realism  in  the  staging  of  plays,  and  we  made 
use  of  the  ingenuity  of  our  elders  to  drive 
Grindoff's  sinister  windmill  in  the  first  act 
of  "The  Miller  and  his  Men."  It  might  be 
said  that  our  theatre,  qud  repertory  theatre, 
was  doomed  from  the  start. 


A  REPERTORY  THEATRE  45 

Nevertheless,  at  least  two  seasons  of  good 
work  were  accomplished  before  our  morbid 
imitation    of     Nature    and    the    illimitable 
egotism   of   Paul    Clifford   finally   succeeded 
in  driving  art  from  the  stage.     During  that 
period     we     produced     about     fifteen    new 
plays,    and    gave    a    large    number   of   one- 
night  revivals.     Our  repertory  ranged  from 
"Hamlet"    to    "Dick    Whittington,"    and    I 
think  one  pleased  us  as  much  as  the  other. 
This  would  have  been  more  remarkable  if 
Paul  Clifford  had  not  played  the  title-part 
in  both  plays.    We  had  soon  come  to  prefer 
him  to  any  other  of  the  heroes,  and  in  con- 
sequence,  whatever   the   play  might   be,   he 
was  bound  to  be  there  in  his  riding-boots 
and    handsome    yellow    satin    coat.      This 
would  have  been  well  enough  if  he  had  been 
willing  to  keep  his  place,  but  he  soon  became 
as  ubiquitous  as  an  actor-manager.     Owing 
to  the  number  of  roles  that  he  was  called 
upon  to  fill,  we  had  his  pasteboard  present- 
ment in  a  hundred  different  attitudes,  and 
on   one   occasion   when   a   stage-crowd   was 
required  it  was  entirely  composed  of  Paul 
Cliffords,  and  even  then  there  were  rows  of 


46   THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

forlorn  Paul  Cliffords  in  the  wings  for  whom 
there  was  no  room  on  the  stage.  This  was 
the  beginning  of  the  end.  We  suffered  from 
the  worst  excesses  of  the  star  system  ;  we 
began  to  be  discontented  when  Paul  was 
not  on  the  stage,  and  we  were  prepared  to 
boo  if  that  dashing  highwayman  was  not 
permitted  to  bluster  across  the  most  subtle 
dramas. 

About  this  time  we  deserted  the  old  theatre 
that  had  been  the  scene  of  so  many  triumphs 
for  a  larger  and  far  more  elaborate  one. 
We  had  long  had  gas  footlights,  but  now 
our  system  of  lighting  was  intricate  enough 
to  suit  Mr.  Arthur  Collins.  Indeed,  when, 
years  afterwards,  I  was  allowed  to  explore 
the  stage  of  Drury  Lane,  I  found  nothing  to 
surprise  me,  save,  perhaps,  the  electric 
switchboard,  with  its  pretty  display  of 
diminutive  electric  lights.  Our  scenic  sensa- 
tions were  only  surpassed  by  those  of  Mr. 
Bruce  Smith.  When  we  played  a  drama- 
tisation of  "  Hard  Cash,"  the  scuttled  vessel 
sank  in  a  sea  of  real  water.  The  fountains 
in  our  Garden  of  Enchantment  flung  scented 
torrents  into  their  moss -clad  basins  ;  and 


A  REPERTORY  THEATRE  47 

when  we  sought  to  reproduce  a  burning 
house  we  succeeded  in  setting  the  theatre 
on  fire. 

It  will  be  understood  that  by  that  time 
we  had  come  to  rely  on  the  grown-up  people 
for  assistance  in  producing  plays,  and  we 
had  substituted  their  perverted  adult  taste 
for  our  juvenile  conceptions  of  drama.  The 
old  plays,  with  their  homely  characters  and 
dignified  simplicity  of  setting,  no  longer 
pleased  us.  We  craved  for  a  debauch  of 
Paul  Clifford,  and  every  new  production  had 
to  be  more  elaborate  in  its  insentient 
mimicry  of  life  than  the  one  before.  The 
inevitable  happened.  The  more  our  stage- 
setting  approximated  to  Nature,  and  the 
more  Paul  pirouetted  in  the  limelight,  the 
less  we  attained  to  that  illusion  which  had 
been  so  easy  to  achieve  on  a  packing-case 
stage  with  two  little  coloured  candles  for 
footlights.  There  came  a  day  when  Paul  no 
longer  interested  us,  and  we  felt  that  we 
had  exhausted  the  possibilities  of  the  sensa- 
tional. The  theatre  was  closed,  and  when, 
many  months  afterwards,  a  vague  curiosity 
led  us  to  ask  what  had  become  of  it,  we 


learnt  with  but  little  regret  that  our  elders 
had  given  it  away  to  some  little  boy  whose 
taste  in  drama  was  as  yet  unsophisticated. 
I  wonder  what  he  made  of  our  real  sea  and 
our  practicable  fountains  ! 

Not  very  long  ago  I  was  turning  over 
some  old  books,  when  a  small  piece  of  card- 
board slipped  from  between  the  pages  and 
fell  to  the  ground.  It  was  in  the  likeness 
of  a  man,  a  man  dressed  in  riding -boots 
and  yellow  satin  ;  yet  it  was  some  moments 
before  I  realised  that  I  was  in  the  presence 
of  the  once  great  Paul  Clifford.  With  recog- 
nition came  something  like  remorse.  It  was 
no  more  than  just  to  forgive  his  faults  after 
so  many  years,  and  he  really  was  a  very 
good  actor  until  an  excess  of  praise  turned 
his  little  pasteboard  head. 

I  looked  round  'the  library,  and  after  due 
consideration  took  a  volume  of  the  Laureate's 
poems  from  the  shelves,  and  laid  the  tired 
highwayman  to  rest  between  its  pages. 

"  Sleep  on,  brave  Paul  ! "  I  said  softly. 
"No  one  will  ever  disturb  you  there." 

And  now  I  have  written  his  epitaph. 


CHILDREN    AND    THE    SPRING 

POETS  and  careless,  happy  fellows  like  that 

may  say  what  they  like  for  the  spring,  but 

there  are  only  two  seasons  in  the  year  for 

children.    The  parties  of  Christmas  appealed 

to  our  senses  in  a  hundred  pleasant  ways. 

They   shone   with   Jack   Frost   and   Chinese 

lanterns  and  the  gay  gelatine  from  crackers  ; 

they  compressed  our  limbs  in  the  pride  of 

new,   uncomfortable   suits    and   tight,    shiny 

shoes ;    they    tasted    of    burnt    raisins    and 

orange  jelly  ;    they  sang  with  frosty  carols 

and    sensible   tunes    and   the   agreeable   din 

of  penny  musical  instruments  ;    they  smelt 

of     Christmas-tree     candles     and    tangerine 

oranges.     Then  there  were  pantomimes  and 

large    silver    pieces    from    the    pockets    of 

millionaire  uncles,  and  if  all  else  failed,  the 

possibility    of    snow.      Certainly    there   was 

nothing  the  matter  with   winter. 

5  *9 


50   THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

Summer,  too,  had  its  fierce,  immeasurable 
joys.  This  was  the  season  of  outdoor 
sports,  hunting  and  boating  and  digging 
holes  to  New  Zealand.  There  was  cricket, 
real  cricket,  which  means  that  you  are  out 
if  you  hit  the  ball  into  the  next  garden, 
and  that  you  stop  playing  if  you  break  a 
window,  and  there  was  hurling  of  javelins 
in  wild  shrubberies,  and  dabbling  in  silver 
brooks  for  elusive  minnows.  Later  there 
would  come  long,  adventurous  journeys  in 
rail  way -trains,  when,  like  wise  travellers, 
we  would  cuddle  provisions  of  buns  and 
pears  and  tepid  sandwiches  in  our  laps.  Our 
legs  would  be  so  stiff  when  we  reached  our 
destination  that  we  would  totter  on  the  plat- 
form like  old  men,  and  our  eyes  would  be 
weary  with  watching  the  fleeting  world. 
But  as  the  cab  crept  up  the  gritty  hills  we 
would  see  the  ocean  waiting  for  us  to  come 
and  play  with  it,  and  everything  else  in  life 
would  be  forgotten.  The  country,  with  its 
apple-trees  and  its  pigs  and  its  secret  places, 
was  not  to  be  despised,  but  it  was  the  sea 
that  led  us  home  to  our  dreams. 

Yet    possibly    the    finest    thing    that    the 


CHILDREN  AND  THE  SPRING         51 

summer  had  to  give  us  was  the  healthy, 
joyous  sense  of  fatigue  that  comes  from 
games.  It  was  pleasant  to  drop  on  the  lawn 
when  cricket  was  over,  and  stay  there,  not 
wholly  displeased  with  the  scent  of  the 
flowers,  looking  into  the  blue  sky  until  the 
gnats  drove  you  in  to  tea.  It  was  pleasant 
to  lie  on  the  beach,  with  the  heat  creeping 
up  and  down  your  face,  and  to  let  the  sand 
trickle  through  your  fingers,  while  the  long 
waves  whispered  out  to  sea.  It  was  pleasant 
to  drowse  in  the  hay  after  hunting  buffaloes 
all  the  sunny  afternoon.  It  was  only  at 
such  moments,  when  the  air  had  a  savour 
of  sleep,  that  we  really  felt  conscious  of 
youth  as  a  desirable  possession. 

A  child's  year  would  be  divided  abruptly 
into  winter  and  summer,  for  youth  is 
impatient  of  compromise,  but  as  things  are, 
there  are  spring  and  autumn  to  be  reckoned 
with.  For  autumn,  there  is  not  much  to  be 
said.  There  were  nuts  and  blackberries,  and 
the  sweet-scented  fallen  leaves,  in  which  we 
would  paddle  up  to  our  knees.  But  the  sea- 
side brown  was  wearing  off  our  legs,  and 
night  came  so  soon  and  with  so  harsh  and 


52   THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

boisterous  a  note.  It  was  not  bad  when  we 
happened  to  be  feeling  very  brave  to  lie 
awake  at  night  and  hear  the  branches 
screaming  when  the  wind  hurt  them.  The 
sheer  discomfort  of  the  outer  world  made 
bed  delicious.  But  the  necessary  courage 
for  this  point  of  view  was  rare,  and  normally 
we  would  wish  the  nights  quieter  and  less 
exciting.  The  autumn  wind  was  for  ever 
fumbling  at  our  nursery  windows  like  a 
burglar,  or  creeping  along  the  passages  like 
a  supernatural  thing.  Sometimes  our  hearts 
stopped  beating  while  we  listened. 

But  of  all  the  seasons  of  the  year,  spring 
is  most  oppressive  to  the  spirit  of  childhood. 
The  dear,  artificial  things  that  had  made  the 
winter  lovely  were  gone,  and  the  pastoral 
delights  of  the  summer  were  still  to  come, 
yet  Nature  called  us  forth  to  a  muddy,  un- 
finished world.  Then  was  the  season  of 
the  official  walk,  a  dreary  traffic  on  nice, 
clean  pavements,  that  placed  everything  in 
the  world  worth  walking  to  out  of  bounds. 
A  cold  wind  without  the  compensating 
advantage  of  snow  would  swing  round  the 
corners  of  streets,  and  we  would  feel  as  if 


CHILDREN  AND  THE   SPRING         53 

we  were  wearing  the  ears  and  noses  of 
other  people.  When  we  were  not  quarrel- 
ling we  were  sulking,  and  each  was  equally 
fatal,  for  the  Olympians  only  needed  a  pre- 
text to  make  our  days  bitter  with  iron  and 
quinine.  And  our  quarrels,  that  at  kinder 
seasons  of  the  year  were  the  regretted  acci- 
dents of  moments,  lingered  now  from  day 
to  day,  and  became  the  source  of  fierce  and 
lonely  pride.  If  one  of  us,  released  for  a 
minute  from  the  wearing  of  the  world's  woes, 
made  timid  efforts  to  arrange  a  concerted  game, 
he  would  become  the  object  of  general  sus- 
picion, and  his  sociability  would  be  regarded 
as  a  hypocritical  effort  to  win  the  favour  of 
the  grown-up  folk.  The  correct  attitude  was 
one  of  surly  aloofness  that  spluttered  once 
or  twice  a  day  into  tearful  rebellion  against 
the  interference  of  the  authorities.  It  is 
insulting  to  give  a  man  medicine  when  he 
tells  you  that  he  wishes  he  were  dead. 

Of  course,  underlying  these  disorders  was 
just  that  dim  spirit  of  disquiet  that  has 
made  this  season  of  the  year  notable  for  the 
production  of  lyric  poetry.  We  had  no 
means  of  expressing  the  thing  that  troubled 


54   THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

our  blood.  Indeed,  we  ourselves  did  not 
know  what  was  the  matter,  though  this 
ignorance  did  not  make  our  discomfort  less. 
Time,  who  in  the  glare  of  a  Christmas  party 
or  on  the  shore  of  a  summer  sea  could  run 
faster  than  we,  seemed  to  take  a  spiteful 
pleasure  in  lingering  in  this  unattractive 
place.  And  although  our  attitude  towards 
life  appeared  to  have  been  determined  for 
us  by  Fate,  when  the  long  day  ended  and 
we  thought  over  things  in  bed,  we  had  not 
even  the  satisfaction  of  being  proud  of  our 
day's  work.  We  would  vow  silently  to  our 
pillows  that  things  should  go  better  to- 
morrow, but  alas  !  there  might  be  many, 
morrows  before  summer"  brought  peace  to 
our  blood. 

It  is  not  only  children  whom  the  spring 
winds  stir  to  madness,  but  a  man  has  striven 
but  poorly  if  he  cannot  contrive  to  bear  in 
patience  with -this  vernal  torment  of  living, 
or  even  to  turn  it  to  some  useful  purpose 
in  his  work.  But  children,  who  can  only 
express  themselves  in  their  play,  must  pay 
for  the  joys  of  the  coming  summer  in  moods 
speechless  and  almost  too  bitter  for  their 


CHILDREN  AND  THE  SPRING        55 

years.  In  sympathy  with  all  the  green, 
quick  things  of  Nature,  their  blood  is  in  a 
state  of  passionate  unrest  for  which  their 
minds  can  supply  no  adequate  reason,  and 
they  are  unhappy  in  consequence.  But  I 
am  far  from  blaming  the  Olympians  for  the 
attitude  they  adopted  in  this  difficult  busi- 
ness. They  kept  a  wise  eye  on  our  health, 
and  if  our  naughtiness  became  outrageous, 
we  were  punished.  For  the  rest,  as  they 
could  not  give  us  lips  of  silver  and  a  pipe 
of  gold  with  which  to  chant  the  amazing 
gladness  of  the  spring,  I  do  not  see  what 
they  could  do. 


ON  NURSERY  CUPBOARDS 

THEY  were  deep  and  wide  and  tall,  and  filled 
as  to  the  lower  shelves  with  a  number  of 
objects  which  no  child  of  spirit  could  find 
interesting  any  longer.  Here  were  the 
battered  fragments  of  the  presents  of  bygone 
birthdays,  of  which  the  true  ownership  was 
dubious,  because  we  none  of  us  would  con- 
fess that  we  had  ever  been  young  enough 
to  receive  such  childish  gifts.  Here  also 
were  foolish  trifles  from  forgotten  Christmas- 
trees,  useless  objects  employed  by  the 
fraudulent  to  give  their  trees  a  deceitful 
appearance  of  wealth.  Then  there  were  the 
presents  that  were  too  useful :  the  elevating 
gifts  of  aunts  and  the  improving  offerings 
of  god-parents,  things  that  either  trespassed 
on  the  arid  land  of  lessons  or  presumed 
some  grown-up  virtue  which  the  recipient 
neither  had  nor  coveted.  The  Olympians 


ON  NURSERY  CUPBOARDS  57 

would  refer  to  these  dull  possessions  in  the 
aggregate  as  "  the  children's  toys  "  ;  but  we 
knew  better.  Our  true  treasures,  the  things 
we  loved,  never  saw  the  inside  of  that 
unromantic  depository  save  through  the 
thoughtless  tidying  of  our  rulers.  The 
works  of  watches  and  mechanical  toys,  our 
soldiers  and  cannon  of  brass,  our  fleet  of 
walnut  boats  and  empty  cartridge-cases — 
these  things  and  their  brothers  slept  under 
our  pillows  or  in  the  very  private  card- 
board boot-box  under  the  bed.  By  day 
those  that  were  being  employed  were  spread 
about  the  floor  or  strained  our  pockets  to 
bursting-point.  The  people  who  were  too 
old  to  know  any  better  referred  to  them 
contemptuously  as  "  rubbish,"  a  word  we 
privately  reserved  for  their  aggravating 
presents.  And  though  the  long  interval 
that  separated  dinner  and  tea  on  wet  days 
might  weary  us  of  our  immediate  jewels, 
it  was  not  in  the  cupboard  that  we  sought 
relief  from  Boredom.  It  is  true  that  now 
and  again  some  Gentleman  Adventurer 
would  climb  on  a  chair  and  investigate 
the  shelves  that  were  supposed  to  be  beyond 


58   THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

our  reach,  to  return  with  piratical  spoil  of 
matches  and  cotton  and  citrate  of  magnesia, 
a  cate  that  tingles  pleasantly  on  the  tongue 
of  youth.  But  even  from  this  point  of  view 
it  could  not  compare  with  the  rich  cupboards 
of  the  kitchen  and  the  dining-room,  those 
Meccas  of  piracy  that  filled  our  dreams  with 
monstrous  raisins  and  pickled  onions,  a  suc- 
cessful pilgrimage  to  which  would  assure  a 
man  the  admiring  homage  of  his  comrades 
for  days  to  come. 

In  short,  we  were  content  to  regard  the 
toy-cupboard  as  a  harmless  hobby  of  the 
grown-up  people,  and  we  were  not  far  wrong. 
It  was  not  for  them  to  understand  that  one 
general  cupboard  could  not  hold  the  real 
treasures  of  four  children,  whose  sense  of 
possession  was  keen  even  to  the  point  of 
battle.  It  was  a  dustbin  for  toys  that  had 
been  found  out,  and  we  would  have  scorned 
to  display  its  sordid  contents  to  our  friends. 
To  them,  if  they  were  worthy,  were  revealed 
the  true  mysteries,  the  things  that  we  fought 
for  and  made  into  dreams,  the  sun  and  moon 
and  stars  of  our  imaginative  heaven.  Senti- 
mental elders  might  greet  it  with  tears  for 


ON  NURSERY  CUPBOARDS  59 

their  lost  youth  if  they  wished  ;  we  received 
their  congratulations  calmly,  and  kept  our 
pity  for  their  insanity  to  ourselves. 

In  truth,  the  thing  was  a  symbol  for  all 
our  relations  with  grown-up  people.  They 
always  seemed  so  sensible  and  yet  they  could 
not  understand.  If  we  fell  off  the  banisters 
on  to  our  heads  they  would  overwhelm  us 
with  sympathy,  when  every  one  knows  that 
a  big  lump  on  the  head  is  a  thing  to  be 
proud  of.  But  if  a  well-meaning  aunt  in- 
sisted on  reading  to  us  for  a  whole  afternoon 
in  the  horse-chestnut  season  we  were 
expected,  and  even  commanded,  to  be 
grateful  for  this  undesired  favour.  And 
so  it  was  in  the  matter  of  toys.  Sometimes, 
by  accident  as  it  were,  they  gave  us  sensible 
things  that  we  really  wanted.  But  as  a  rule 
their  presents  were  concrete  things  that  gave 
our  imaginations  no  chance.  We  only 
wanted  something  to  make  a  "  think  "  about, 
but  few  of  the  official  presents  were  suitable 
for  this  purpose.  One  of  the  gifts  that  de- 
lighted me  most  as  a  child  was  a  blue  glass 
dish,  large  and  shallow.  Filled  with  water 
it  became  a  real  blue  sea,  very  proper  for 


60   THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

the  navigation  of  smaller  craft.  Empty  and 
subverted  it  became  the  dome  of  an  azure 
city.  And  holding  it  before  my  eyes  I 
would  see  a  blue  world,  a  place  the  exist- 
ence of  which  I  had  previously  only  sus- 
pected. An  ocean,  a  city,  and  a  world 
combine  to  make  a  better  present  than  a 
commonplace  toy.  Once  in  a  blue  moon  I 
have  seen  strange  sights,  and  something  of 
the  glamour  of  that  dish  is  with  me 
even  now. 

Naturally,  in  course  of  time  an  uncommon 
significance  became  attached  to  such  things 
as  this,  and  I  should  have  no  more  thought 
of  keeping  my  blue  sea  in  the  same  cupboard 
as  my  brother's  maxim  gun  than  he  would 
have  allowed  that  excellent  weapon  to  be 
the  bedfellow  of  my  sister's  famous  one- 
legged  nigger  doll.  We  realised  far  better 
than  our  elders  the  meaning  of  their 
favourite  shibboleth,  "  a  place  for  every- 
thing "  ;  we  knew  that  the  sea  air  would 
rust  a  cannon,  and  that  poor  Dorothy  could 
swim  but  poorly  with  her  one  dusky  leg. 
So  we  tacitly  left  the  cupboard  as  a  place 
wherein  the  grown-ups  could  keep  the  toys 


ON  NURSERY  CUPBOARDS  61 

they  gave  us  to  please  themselves,  and  found 
exclusive  and  more  sympathetic  hiding-places 
for  our  treasures.  Now  and  again  a  toy 
might  pass  through  both  stages  of  existence. 
Mechanical  toys  did  not  amuse  us  at  all,  until 
the  donors  were  tired  of  playing  with  them, 
and  we  might  pull  them  to  pieces  and  make 
them  our  very  own.  And  the  costly  gifts 
of  uncles  were  useless  until  the  authorities 
had  ceased  to  see  that  we  took  care  of  them. 
But  these  doubtful  cases  apart,  we  would 
divide  our  presents  into  their  respective 
groups  as  soon  as  we  had  removed  the 
wrappings.  ''This  and  this  can  go  into  the 
cupboard,  but  this  shall  go  to  bed  with  me 
to-night  ! "  It  was  not  the  person  who 
"  understands "  children  who  was  most 
fortunate  in  the  choice  of  gifts. 

For  the  rest,  with  unconscious  satire,  we 
constituted  the  toy-cupboard  the  state  prison 
of  the  nursery.  Refractory  dolls  and  kittens, 
and  soldiers  awaiting  court-martial,  repented 
their  crimes  in  its  depressing  gloom,  and  this 
was  really  the  only  share  it  had  in  our 
amusements.  Beyond  that  it  stood  merely 
for  official  "  play,"  a  melancholy  traffic  in 


62   THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

which  we  never  indulged.  Its  shelves  were 
crowded  with  the  illusions  of  grown-up 
people,  and,  if  we  considered  it  at  all,  it 
was  in  the  same  aspect  in  which  we  were 
wont  to  regard  them.  They  were  obviously 
well-meaning,  but  somehow  or  other  they 
lacked  understanding,  and  the  nursery  cup- 
board was  full  in  consequence. 


THE     FAT    MAN 

I  MET  him  first  at  Lord's,  the  best  place, 
perhaps,  in  all  London  for  making  acquaint- 
ances and  even  friends.  Even  if  he  had  not 
worn  a  light  suit  of  clothes  that  drew  the 
critical  eye  inevitably  to  his  monstrous  girth 
he  would  have  been  conspicuous  as  occupy- 
ing with  difficulty  the  space  provided  for 
two  persons  on  an  afternoon  when  seats  were 
at  a  premium.  But  though  I  own  to  no 
prejudice  against  flesh  in  itself,  it  was  not  his 
notable  presence  that  induced  me  to  speak 
to  him,  but  rather  the  appealing  glances  that 
he  threw  to  right  and  left  of  him  when  he 
thought  to  have  detected  that  fine  wine  of 
the  game  which,  tasted  socially,  changes  a 
cricket  match  to  a  rare  and  solemn  festival. 
Such  an  invitation  is  one  that  no  one  for 
whom  cricket  is  an  inspiration  can  refuse, 
and  it  was  natural  that  thereafter  we  should 

63 


64      THE  DAY  BEFORE   YESTERDAY 

praise  and  criticise  in  wise  and  sympathetic 
chorus. 

The  acquaintance  thus  begun  warmed  to 
intimacy  at  the  Oval  and  Canterbury,  and 
I  began  to  seek  his  easily  recognisable  figure 
on  cricket-grounds  with  eagerness,  to  feel 
a  pang  of  disappointment  if  he  was  not  there. 
For  though  to  his  careless  eye  his  great 
moonlike  face  might  suggest  no  more  than 
good-natured  stupidity,  I  had  soon  discovered 
that  this  exuberance  of  form  barely  con- 
cealed a  delicate  and  engaging  personality, 
that  within  those  vast  galleries  of  flesh  there 
roamed  the  timid  spirit  of  a  little  child.  I 
have  said  that  to  the  uncritical  his  face  might 
seem  wanting  in  intelligence,  but  it  was 
rather  that  the  normal  placidity  of  his 
features  suggested  a  lack  of  emotional 
sensitiveness.  Save  with  his  eyes — and  it 
needed  experience  to  read  their  message — 
he  had  no  means  of  expressing  his  minor 
emotions,  no  compromise  between  his  wonted 
serenity  and  the  monstrous  phenomenon  of 
his  laughter,  that  induced  a  facial  metamor- 
phosis almost  too  startling  to  convey  an 
impression  of  mirth.  If  normally  his  face 


THE  FAT  MAN  65 

might  be  compared  with  a  deep,  still  pool, 
laughter  may  be  said  to  have  stirred  it  up  with 
a  stick,  and  the  consequent  ripples  seemed 
to  roll  to  the  very  extremities  of  his  body, 
growing  in  force  as  they  went,  so  that  his 
hands  and  feet  vibrated  in  humorous  ecstasy. 
Later,  when,  in  one  of  his  quaint  inter- 
rogative moods,  he  showed  me  a  photograph 
of  himself  as  a  child,  I  was  able  to  give 
form  to  the  charming  spirit  that  Nature  had 
burdened  with  this  grievous  load.  I  saw 
the  picture  of  a  strikingly  handsome  little 
boy,  with  dark,  wide  eyes  and  slightly  parted 
lips  that  alike  told  of  a  noble  sense  of 
wonder.  This,  I  felt,  was  the  man  I  knew, 
whose  connection  with  that  monstrous  shape 
of  flesh  had  been  so  difficult  to  trace.  Yet 
strangely  I  could  recognise  the  features  of 
the  boy  in  the  expansive  areas  of  the  man. 
In  the  light  of  the  photograph  he  resembled 
one  of  those  great  cabbage-roses  that  a  too 
lavish  season  has  swollen  beyond  all  flower- 
like  proportions,  yet  which  are  none  the  less 
undeniably  roses.  Others  might  find  him 
clumsy,  elephantine,  colossal  ;  thenceforward 
he  was  for  me  clearly  boyish. 

6 


66       THE  DAY   BEFORE   YESTERDAY 

His  voice  varied  more  in  tone  and  quality 
than  that  of  any  other  man  I  have  ever 
met,  and  over  these  variations  he  seemed  to 
have  little  control  ;  and  this,  too,  made  it 
very  difficult  for  strangers  to  detect  the 
trippings  and  hesitancies,  gentle,  wayward, 
and  infinitely  sensitive,  of  his  childlike  tem- 
perament. Within  the  limits  of  one  simple 
utterance  he  would  achieve  sounds  re- 
sembling the  drumming  of  sudden  rain  on 
galvanised  iron  and  the  ecstatic  whistlings 
of  dew-drunk  birds.  It  was  sometimes  diffi- 
cult to  follow  the  purport  of  his  speech  for 
sheer  wonder  at  the  sounds  that  slid  and 
leaped  and  burst  from  his  lips.  His  voice 
reminded  me  of  a  child  strumming  on  some 
strange  musical  instrument  of  extraordinary 
range  and  capacity  which  it  had  not  learned 
how  to  play.  His  laughter  was  ventriloquial 
and  rarely  bore  any  accountable  relationship 
to  the  expressions  of  mirth  of  ordinary  men. 
It  was  like  an  explosive  rendering  of  one 
of  those  florid  scales  dear  to  piano-tuners, 
but  sometimes  it  suggested  rather  an  earth- 
quake in  his  boots. 

He  dwelt  in  a  little  flat  that  seemed  like 


THE  FAT  MAN  67 

the  upper  floor  of  a  doll's-house  when  re- 
lated to  its  proprietor,  and  here  it  was  his 
delight  to  dispense  a  hospitality  charmingly 
individual.  His  meals  recalled  nothing  so 
much  as  the  illicit  feasts  held  in  school 
dormitories,  and  when  he  peered  curiously 
into  his  own  cupboards  he  always  looked 
as  if  he  were  about  to  steal  jam.  He  would 
produce  viand  after  viand  with  the  glee  of 
a  successful  explorer,  and  in  terms  of  his 
eager  hospitality  the  most  bizarre  cates 
appeared  congruous  and  even  intimately  con- 
nected, so  that  at  his  board  grown  men  would 
eat  like  schoolboys,  with  the  great  careless 
appetite  of  youth. 

He  had  a  fine  library  and  a  still  finer 
collection  of  mechanical  toys,  which  were 
for  him  a  passion  and  a  delight.  It  was 
pleasant  to  see  him  set  some  painted  piece 
of  clockwork  careering  on  the  hearthrug, 
stooping  over  it  tenderly,  with  wondering 
eyes,  and  hands  intent  to  guard  it  from 
disaster.  It  was  pleasant,  too,  to  hear  him 
recite  Swinburne,  of  whom  he  was  a 
passionate  admirer ;  for,  though  his  voice 
would  be  as  rebellious  as  ever,  his  whole 


body  would  thrill  and  pulse  with  the  music 
of  the  poet.  He  always  touched  books  softly 
because  he  loved  them.  Of  bonfires  he  spoke 
reverently,  though  a  London  flat  hardly  lent 
itself  to  their  active  exploitation  ;  and  I 
remember  that  he  told  me  once  that  nothing 
gave  him  a  keener  sense  of  what  he  had 
lost  in  growing  up  than  the  scent  of  burning 
twigs  and  leaves.  Yet  if  he  felt  this  loss, 
what  should  it  have  been  for  us  who  had 
come  so  much  farther  than  he  ! 

Himself  a  child,  he  was  beloved  of 
children  and  treated  by  them  as  an  equal  ; 
but  I  never  knew  another  child  who  was 
so  easily  and  continuously  amused.  The 
Hippodrome,  the  British  Museum,  the  Tower 
of  London,  and  the  art  of  Messrs.  Maskelyne 
and  Devant  alike  raised  in  him  the  highest 
enthusiasm,  which  he  expressed  with  charm- 
ing but  sometimes  embarrassing  freedom. 
Alone  of  all  men,  perhaps,  he  found  the 
Royal  Academy  wholly  satisfying,  and  it 
could  be  said  of  him  truly  that  if  he  did 
not  admire  the  picture  he  would  always  like 
the  frame.  He  had  a  huge  admiration  for 
any  one  who  did  anything,  and  he  liked 
riding  in  lifts. 


THE  FAT  MAN  69 

Though  he  treated  women  with  elaborate 
courtesy,  their  society  made  him  self-con- 
scious, and  he,  who  could  direct  his  body 
featly  enough  in  a  crowded  street,  was  apt 
to  be  clumsy  in  drawing-rooms.  Perhaps 
it  was  for  this  reason  that  they  had  appar- 
ently played  no  marked  part  in  his  life,  and 
I  may  be  wrong  in  attaching  any  special 
significance  to  a  phrase  he  made  one  quiet 
evening  in  his  flat.  We  had  been  speaking 
of  the  latest  sensation  in  our  group  of  mutual 
acquaintances,  of  the  marriage  of  Phyllis, 
daintiest  and  most  witty  of  cricket-lovers, 
to  a  man  in  whom  the  jealously  critical 
eyes  of  her  friends  could  perceive  no  charm  ; 
but  the  conversation  had  dwindled  to  silence 
when  he  said,  "  Surely  his  love  can  make 
any  man  lovely  !  " 

Then,  as  if  the  subject  were  closed,  he 
fell  to  speaking  of  his  latest  pocket-knife  with 
boyish  animation  ;  but  the  phrase  dwelt  in 
my  mind,  though  the  image  of  the  brave 
boy  with  wide  eyes  and  lips  parted  in  wonder 
was  all  that  I  ever  knew  of  the  man  who 
made  it. 


CAROL   SINGERS 

WHEN  we  were  boys  there  was  no  part  of 
the  Christmas  festivities  to  which  we  looked 
forward  more  eagerly  than  the  singing  of 
carols  from  house  to  house  on  Christmas 
Eve.  If  the  night  fell  wild  and  rainy,  we 
had  to  abandon  our  tuneful  journey  and 
content  ourselves  with  singing  indoors.  But 
if  it  was  a  dry  night,  we  set  forth  joyfully, 
even  though  a  disquieted  moon  and  inat- 
tentive stars  foretold  a  wet  Christmas.  Our 
hearts  were  lighter  than  men's  hearts  can 
be,  as  we  clattered  down  the  lanes,  fortified 
by  a  hot  supper  and  possibly  a  scalding 
tumblerful  of  mulled  claret.  We  would 
always  start  at  the  houses  of  friends,  and 
then,  made  bold  by  success,  we  would  sing 
our  glad  tidings  to  any  house  which  had  a 
lit  window.  For  the  credit  of  human  nature 
it  may  be  said  that  we  were  made  welcome 

70 


CAROL  SINGERS  71 

wherever  we  went.  Sometimes  people  offered 
us  money,  which  our  code  forbade  us  to 
accept,  though  we  should  have  liked  it  well 
enough  ;  more  frequently  we  were  asked  to 
come  in  and  have  something  to  eat  or  drink, 
offers  with  which  even  the  infinite  capacity 
of  youth  could  by  no  means  cope.  If  the 
night  was  frosty  it  was  pleasant  to  toast 
ourselves  for  a  minute  or  two  in  front  of 
the  fire  before  going  out  again  into  a  world 
of  frozen  ruts,  sparkling  hedgerows,  and 
mysterious  shadows,  wherein  we  felt  our- 
selves veritable  figures  of  romance. 

And,  indeed,  we  ourselves  sang  better  than 
we  knew.  However  cheerfully  and  noisily 
we  might  undertake  the  expedition,  it  was 
not  long  before  we  became  aware  that  other 
spirits  were  abroad.  The  simple  words  and 
merry  tunes  which  we  sang  suddenly  became 
wonderfully  significant.  Between  the  verses 
we  heard  the  sheep  calling  on  far  hills  while 
the  shepherd  kings  rode  down  to  Bethlehem 
with  their  gifts.  The  trees  and  fields  and 
houses  took  up  the  chant,  and  our  noises 
were  blended  with  that  deep  song  of  the 
Universe  which  the  new  ears  of  the  young 


72      THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

hear  so  often  and  so  clearly.  When  our  carol 
was  over  there  would  fall  a  great  silence 
that  seemed  to  our  quickened  senses  to  be 
but  a  gentler  and  sweeter  music  of  hope 
and  joy.  As  we  passed  from  one  house  to 
the  next  we  spoke  to  each  other  in  whispers 
for  fear  we  should  break  the  spell  that  held 
the  night  enchanted.  Even  as  we  heard 
other  noises  when  we  sang,  so  now  we  heard 
the  sound  of  other  feet  that  trod  the  same 
glad  road  as  our  own.  From  being  a  half- 
dozen  of  little  boys  come  out  to  have  some 
fun  on  Christmas  eve,  we  had  become  a 
small  section  of  a  great  army.  Tramp, 
tramp,  the  joyful  feet  fell  before  and  behind 
us  along  the  road,  and  when  we  stopped  to 
sing,  the  whole  night  thrilled  into  a  trium- 
phant ecstasy  of  song.  On  such  nights  the 
very  earth,  it  seemed,  sang  carols. 

It  is,  perhaps,  our  vivid  recollection  of 
the  glories  of  those  memorable  Christmas 
Eves  that  leads  us  to  be  gentle  with  the  little 
boys  and  girls  who  sing  at  our  door  to-night. 
We  have  all  listened  to  the  eloquent  persons 
who  can  prove  that  Christmas  is  not  what 
it  used  to  be.  They  point  to  the  decadence 


CAROL  SINGERS  73 

of  pantomime,  the  decay  of  the  waits  and 
mummers,  and  the  democratic  impudence  of 
those  who  demand  Christmas-boxes.  Well, 

it  may  be ,  but  children  do  like  modern 

pantomimes  in  spite  of  the  generalisations 
of  critics  ;  and  though  a  Salvation  Army  band 
is  an  unpicturesque  substitute  for  such  a 
village  orchestra  as  is  described  in  "  Under 
the  Greenwood  Tree,"  it  at  least  satisfies  the 
ear  of  the  sentimentalist  at  two  o'clock  of 
a  frosty  morning.  That  Christmas-boxes  are 
a  nuisance  is  no  new  discovery.  We  find 
Swift  grumbling  to  Stella  about  them  exactly 
two  hundred  years  ago.  Mummers,  we  are 
told,  are  still  to  be  found  in  the  country ; 
five  years  back  we  saw  them  ourselves  and 
were  satisfied  that  they  had  learnt  their 
rather  obscure  rhymes  from  their  fathers 
before  them,  and  not  from  any  well-mean- 
ing society  for  faking  old  customs. 

This  said,  it  must  be  admitted  that  carol - 
singers  are  not  what  they  were.  Of  the 
long  procession  of  ragged  children  who  have 
sung  "  While  shepherds  watched  their  flocks 
by  night "  at  our  gate  this  December,  not 
one  had  taken  the  trouble  to  learn  either 


74   THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

the  words  or  the  tune  accurately.  When 
asked  to  sing  some  other  carol  they  broke 
down,  and  it  was  apparent  that  they  were 
trusting  to  their  hungry  and  thinly  clad 
appearance  rather  than  to  their  singing  as 
a  means  to  obtain  alms  from  the  charitable. 
Sometimes— this  we  fear  is  really  a  modern 
note— the^  father  was  waiting  in  the  back- 
ground to  collect  the  takings  !  It  is  rather 
difficult  to  know  what  to  do  in  such  cases, 
for  the  children  may  be  punished  if  they 
are  not  successful ;  and  yet  the  practice  of 
sending  insufficiently  clad  children  into  the 
streets  on  a  winter's  night  is  hardly  to  be 
encouraged. 

Nevertheless,  though  the  abuse  is  manifest, 
we  would  hesitate  to  say  that  the  custom 
of  singing  carols  at  our  doors  should  be 
stopped.  It  is  difficult  to  read  the  heart 
of  a  child  aright,  but  it  seems  to  us  at  least 
possible  that  a  few  of  the  children  win  more 
than  a  mere  handful  of  pennies  from  their 
singing.  Though  they  mumble  their  words 
to  a  tune  they  only  half  remember,  it  is 
not  likely  that  the  spirit  that  made  wonderful 
the  Christmas  Eves  of  long  ago  shall  alto- 


CAROL  SINGERS  75 

gether  pass  them  by.  Surely  the  night  con- 
spires with  lights  of  the  world  to  enchant 
them,  and  for  their  own  ears  their  voices 
achieve  beauty  beyond  the  measure  of  mortal 
song. 

In  truth,  this  is  a  dream  that  we  can  ill 
afford  to  spare.  It  seems  a  pity,  however, 
that  the  children  are  not  taught  carol-sing- 
ing at  school,  especially  as  they  are  now 
often  taught,  to  our  great  content,  the  old 
games  and  dances.  Many  of  the  older  carols 
are  really  beautiful,  both  in  the  homely 
simplicity  of  their  words  and  in  the  un- 
affected charm  of  the  airs  to  which  they 
are  set.  The  desire  of  the  average  child 
for  song  is  extraordinary — as  extraordinary, 
perhaps,  as  the  regrettable  contempt  of  the 
average  adult  for  poetry.  Last  year  we 
were  present  at  the  dress  rehearsal  of  the 
pantomime  at  Drury  Lane,  and  we  heard  a 
theatreful  of  poor  children  sing  the  music- 
hall  ditties  of  the  hour  with  wonderful  spirit 
and  intensity.  Our  emotions  were  mixed. 
Mingled  with  the  natural  pleasure  that  they 
should  be  enjoying  themselves  was  something 
of  regret  for  the  sad  lives  that  so  small  a 


76      THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

treat  should  rouse  to  ecstasy.  Afterwards  we 
felt  sorry  that  the  children  had  nothing 
better  to  sing.  We  have  no  prejudice  against 
music-hall  songs  in  general.  They  are  not 
as  intelligent  as  they  might  be,  but  they 
serve  their  time  in  pleasing,  harmlessly 
enough,  a  number  of  people  who  also  are 
not  as  intelligent  as  they  might  be.  But 
somehow  the  lyres  of  little  singing  children 
deserve  better  fare  than  this.  We  look 
forward  to  a  time  when  they  will  have  it. 


THE     MAGIC     CARPET 

THERE  were  two  rugs  in  the  library,  and 
for  some  time  we  used  to  dispute  the 
vexed  question  of  their  relative  merits. 
^Esthetically,  there  was  something  to  be  said 
for  both  of  them.  The  rug  that  stood  by 
the  writing-desk  from  which  father  wrote 
to  the  newspapers  was  soft  and  furry ; 
indeed,  it  was  almost  as  pleasant  a  couch  as 
the  sofa  with  the  soft  cushions  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, which  was  taboo.  Moreover,  it 
leant  itself  very  readily  to  such  fashionable 
winter  sport  as  bear -hunting,  providing  as 
it  did  a  trackless  prairie,  a  dangerous  marsh, 
or  the  quarry  itself  as  the  adventure 
required.  The  joys  of  the  other  rug  were 
of  a  calmer  kind,  and  were,  perhaps,  chiefly 
due  to  its  advantageous  position  before  the 
fire.  It  was  pleasant  to  toast  oneself  on  a 
winter  evening  and  trace  with  idle  fingers 

77 


78      THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

the  agreeable  deviations  of  its  pattern. 
Sometimes  it  might  be  the  ground  plan  of 
a  make-up  city,  with  forts  and  sweet-shops 
and  palaces  for  our  friends  ;  sometimes  it 
would  be  a  maze,  and  we  would  pursue,  with 
bated  breath,  the  vaulted  passages  that  led 
to  the  dread  lair  of  the  Minotaur.  But  such 
plots  as  these  were  of  passive,  rather  than 
active,  interest.  Reviewing  the  argument 
dispassionately,  Fenimore  Cooper  may  have 
had  a  slight  advantage  over  Nathaniel  Haw- 
thorne ;  bear -hunting  may  have  been  a  little 
more  popular  than  the  dim  excitements  of 
Greek  myth. 

But  while  the  discussion  was  at  its  height, 
there  dawned  in  the  East  the  sun  that  was 
to  prove  fatal  to  Perseus  and  the  Deerslayer 
alike.  I  do  not  know  from  which  of  our 
uncles  "  The  Arabian  Nights  "  first  came  to 
an  enraptured  audience  ;  but  I  am  sure  that 
an  uncle  must  have  been  responsible  for  its 
coming,  for  as  a  gift  it  was  avuncular  in 
its  splendour.  We  quickly  realised  that  the 
world  had  changed,  and  took  the  necessary 
steps  to  welcome  our  new  guest.  The  old 
lamp  in  the  hall  that  had  graced  the  illicit 


THE  MAGIC  CARPET  79 

doings  of  pirates  and  smugglers  in  the  past 
was  thenceforward  the  property  of  Aladdin  ; 
a  strange  bottle  that  had  been  Crusoe's 
served  to  confine  the  unfortunate  genie  ;  and 
with  quickening  pulses  we  discovered  that 
in  the  fireside  rug  we  possessed  no  less  a 
treasure  than  the  original  magic  carpet. 

I  must  explain  that  we  were  not  like  those 
fortunate  children  of  whom  Miss  Nesbit 
writes  with  such  humorous  charm.  To  us 
there  fell  no  tremendous  adventures  ;  we 
might  polish  Aladdin's  lamp  till  it  shone  like 
the  moon  without  gaining  a  single  concrete 
acid-drop  for  our  pains.  But  the  "Arabian 
Nights "  gave  us  all  that  we  ever  thought 
of  seeking  either  in  books  or  toys  in  those 
uncritical  days — a  starting-point  for  our 
dreams.  And  this,  I  take  it,  is  the  best  thing 
that  a  writer  can  give  a  child,  and  it  was 
for  lack  of  this  that  we  considered  the 
works  of  Lewis  Carroll  silly,  while  finding 
one  of  the  books  of  Miss  Molesworth— I  wish 
I  could  recall  its  name — a  masterpiece  of 
fancy  and  erudition. 

So  when  the  din  of  the  schoolroom  did 
not  suit  my  mood,  or  the  authorities  were 


80      THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

unduly  didactic,  I  would  slip  away  to  the 
twilit  library  and  guide  the  magic  carpet 
through  the  delicate  meadows  of  my  dreams. 
The  fire  would  blaze  and  crackle  in  the  grate 
and  fill  my  eyes  with  tears,  so  that  it  was 
easy  to  fancy  myself  in  a  sparkling  world 
of  sunshine.  And  from  the  shadows  of  the 
room  little  creatures  would  creep  out  to 
touch  my  glowing  cheeks  with  cool,  soft 
fingers,  or  to  pluck  timidly  at  the  sleeve  of 
my  coat.  I  did  not  endeavour  to  give  these 
shy  companions  of  the  dark  any  definite 
place  in  my  universe.  Their  sympathetic 
reticence  was  reassuring  in  that  room  of 
great  leaping  shadows,  and  I  was  glad  that 
they  should  keep  me  company  in  the  black- 
ness, a  thing  so  terrible  when  I  woke  up  at 
night  in  my  bed.  Sometimes,  perhaps,  I 
wondered  how  they  could  bear  to  live  in  the 
place  where  nightmare  was ;  but  for  the 
rest  I  accepted  their  society  gladly  and  with- 
out question.  There  was  plenty  of  room  on 
the  carpet  for  such  quiet  fellows,  and  if  they 
liked  to  accompany  me  on  my  travels  I,  at 
least,  would  not  prevent  them. 

It  did  not  occur  to  me  at  the  time,   as 


THE  MAGIC  CARPET  81 

it  certainly  does  now,  that  I  should  never 
again  be  so  near  to  fairyland  as  I  was  then. 
I  was  inclined  to  be  sceptical  concerning 
the  actual  existence  of  the  supernatural, 
though  I  recognised  that  a  judicious  accept- 
ance of  its  theories  set  a  new  kingdom 
beneath  one's  feet  for  play.  And  it  is  only 
now  that  I  realise  how  wonderfully  vivid 
my  dreams  were,  with  what  zest  of  timid 
life  the  little  shadow-folk  thrilled  and 
trembled  round  me.  It  is  true  that  I 
remained  conscious  of  my  normal  environ- 
ment ;  the  fire,  the  dark  room,  and  the 
bookcases  were  all  there,  and  even  a  kind 
of  quiet  sense  of  the  World  beyond  the  Door, 
the  hall  and  the  passages  and  my  brothers 
and  sisters  at  their  quarrels.  But  it  was 
as  if  these  things  had  become  merely  an 
idea  in  my  mind,  while  my  feet  were  set 
on  the  pleasant  roads  of  a  new  world.  The 
thing  that  I  had  hoped  became  true  ;  and 
the  truth  that  I  had  been  taught  lingered 
in  my  mind  only  as  a  familiar  story,  a  busi- 
ness of  second-hand  emotions,  neither  very 
desirable  nor  very  interesting.  The  little 
folk  gathered  and  whispered  round  me  in 

7 


82   THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

the  dark,  and  there  was  full  day  in  the  world 
that  was  my  own. 

It  was  hard  to  leave  that  world  for  this 
other  place,  which  even  now  I  cannot  under- 
stand ;  but  when  some  errant  Olympian  or 
righteously  indignant  brother  had  dragged 
me  from  my  lair,  I  did  not  attempt  to 
defend  myself  from  the  charge  of  moodiness. 
I  had  no  words  to  tell  them  what  they  had 
done,  and  I  could  only  stand  blinking 
beneath  the  light  of  the  gas  in  the  hall,  and 
endeavour  to  recall  their  wholly  tiresome 
rules  and  regulations  for  the  life  of  youth. 
Dimly  I  knew  that  my  right  place  was 
before  the  fire  in  the  library,  and  I 
wondered  whether  the  little  folk  could 
use  the  Magic  Carpet  without  me,  or 
whether  they  stayed  expectant  in  the 
shadows,  like  me,  a  little  lonely,  and  a  little 
chill.  But  in  those  days  moodiness  was 
only  a  lesser  crime  than  sulkiness,  and  I 
had  perforce  to  fold  up  my  fancies  and  pass, 
an  emotional  bankrupt,  into  the  unsym- 
pathetic world  of  the  playroom.  To- 
morrow, perhaps,  the  Magic  Carpet  might 
be  mine  again  ;  meanwhile,  I  would  exist. 


THE  MAGIC   CARPET  83 

Peter  Pan  has  asked  us  a  good  many  times 
whether  we  believe  in  fairies.  It  is,  of 
course,  a  matter  of  faith,  to  be  accepted  or 
denied,  but  not  to  be  discussed.  For  my 
part,  I  think  of  a  little  boy  nodding  on  a 
rug  before  the  fire  on  many  a  winter's  even- 
ing, and  I  clap  my  hands.  Gratitude  could 
do  no  less. 


STAGE    CHILDREN 

I  DO  not  know  that  at  any  time  Hastings 
is  a  very  lively  place.  The  houses  have 
acquired  a  habit  of  being  vacant,  and  even 
the  front,  with  its  bath-chairs,  its  band- 
stands that  are  silent  on  Sundays,  and  its 
seats  upon  which  one  may  not  smoke,  is 
more  suggestive  of  Puritans  and  invalids 
than  of  pleasure.  If  Time  should  suddenly 
drop  a  week  from  the  due  order  of  days, 
it  is  easy  to  imagine  that  those  bath -chairs, 
those  unfragrant  shelters,  those  much- 
labelled  houses  would  startle  the  dreaming 
tourists  with  vacant  faces  of  dead  men.  But 
when  in  late  March  the  day  has  squandered 
its  gold,  and  the  earth  is  saddened  with  the 
gentle  grey  ness  of  the  dusk,  when,  more- 
over, the  cheerful  sea  has  deserted  the  shore, 
creeping  far  out  to  leave  dull  acres  of  un- 
trodden sand,  waste  and  bitter  with  salt,  a 

84 


STAGE   CHILDREN  85 

man  might  surely  be  forgiven  if  he  cried 
aloud  against  the  extreme  cruelty  of  Nature, 
the  timid  injustice  of  man. 

Being  of  Anglo-Saxon  blood,  I  did  not  give 
definite  expression  to  the  melancholy  which 
the  quenched  seascape  had  invoked.  I  con- 
tented myself  with  leaning  on  the  rail,  and 
sneering  at  the  art  of  the  cripple  who  had 
made  mathematically  exact  scratchings  of 
Windsor  Castle  and  the  Eddystone  Light- 
house on  the  sand.  There  was  something 
almost  humorously  impertinent  about  that 
twisted  figure  with  one  foot  bowing  and 
hopping  for  pennies  in  front  of  a  terrible 
back-cloth  of  dreamy  grey.  How  could  a 
man  forget  the  horrors  of  infinite  space,  and 
scratch  nothings  on  the  blank  face  of  the 
earth  for  coppers?  His  one  foot  was  bare 
so  that  his  Silver -like  activities  might  not 
spoil  his  pictures,  and  when  he  was  not 
hopping  he  shivered  miserably.  As  I  saw 
him  at  the  moment  he  stood  very  well  for 
humanity— sordid,  grotesque,  greedy  of  mean 
things,  twisted  and  bruised  by  the  pitiless 
hand  of  Nature. 

And  then  in  a  flash  there  happened  one  of 


86   THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

those  miracles  which  rebuke  us  when  we 
lack  faith.  Through  the  shadows  which 
were  not  grey  but  purple  there  burst  a 
swarm  of  children  running  on  light  feet 
across  the  sands.  They  chased  each  other 
hither  and  thither,  stooped  to  gather  shells 
and  seaweed,  and  inspected  the  works  of 
the  cripple  with  outspoken  admiration.  Re- 
garding my  mournful  and  terrible  world  in 
detail,  they  found  it  beautiful  with  pink 
shells  and  tangled  seaweed  and  the  gallant 
efforts  of  men.  So  far  from  being  terrified 
or  humiliated  by  the  sombre  wastes  of  sand 
and  sky,  they  made  of  the  one  a  playing- 
ground,  and  woke  the  other  with  echoes  of 
their  shrill  laughter.  Perhaps  they  found 
that  the  sea  was  rather  larger  than  the 
Serpentine,  perhaps  they  thought  that  the 
sands  were  not  so  well  lit  as  Kingsway  ;  but, 
after  all,  they  were  making  holiday,  and  at 
such  a  time  things  are  different.  They 
laughed  at  space. 

For  these  were  London  children,  and  all 
the  resources  of  civilisation  had  not  been 
able  to  deprive  them  of  that  sense  of  propor- 
tion which  we  lose  with  age.  The  stars  are 


STAGE   CHILDREN  87 

small  and  of  little  importance,  and  even  the 
sun  is  not  much  larger  than  a  brandy-ball. 
But  a  golden  pebble  by  the  seashore  is  a 
treasure  that  a  child  may  hold  in  its  hand; 
and  it  is  certain  that  never  a  grown-up  one 
of  us  can  own  anything  so  surely.  We  may 
search  our  memories  for  sunsets  and  tresses 
of  dead  girls,  but  who  would  not  give  all 
their  faded  fragrance  for  one  pink  shell  and 
the  power  to  appreciate  it?  So  it  was  that 
I  had  found  the  world  wide  and  ugly  and 
terrible,  lacking  the  Aladdin's  lamp  of  imag- 
ination, which  had  shown  the  children  that 
it  was  a  place  of  treasure,  with  darkness  to 
make  the  search  exciting.  They  flitted  about 
the  beach  like  eager  moths. 

Yet  on  these  children  Civilisation  had 
worked  with  her  utmost  cunning,  with  her 
most  recent  resource.  For  they  were  little 
actors  and  actresses  from  Drury  Lane,  tour- 
ing in  a  pantomime  of  their  own  ;  wise 
enough  in  the  world's  ways  to  play  grown-up 
characters  with  uncommon  skill,  and  bred 
in  the  unreality  of  the  footlights  and  the 
falsehood  of  grease-paints.  Nevertheless, 
coming  fresh  from  the  elaborate  make -belief 


88      THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

of  the  theatre  and  the  intoxicating  applause, 
they  ran  down  to  the  sea  to  find  the 
diamonds  and  pearls  that  alone  are  real.  If 
this  is  not  wisdom  I  know  not  where  wisdom 
lies,  and,  watching  them,  I  could  have 
laughed  aloud  at  the  thought  of  the  critics 
who  have  told  me  that  the  life  of  the  stage 
makes  children  unnatural.  There  are  many 
wise  and  just  people  who  do  not  like  to 
see  children  acting,  forgetting  perhaps  that 
mimicry  is  the  keynote  of  all  child's  play, 
and  that  nothing  but  this  instinct  leads 
babies  to  walk  upright  and  to  speak  with 
their  tongues.  Whether  they  are  on  the 
stage  or  not,  children  are  always  borrowing 
the  words  and  emotions  of  other  people, 
and  it  is  a  part  of  the  charm  of  childhood 
that  through  this  mask  of  tricks  and  phrases 
the  real  child  peeps  always  into  the  eyes 
and  hearts  of  the  elect. 

And  this  is  why  I  know  nothing  more 
delightful  than  the  spectacle  of  a  score  of 
children  playing  at  life  on  the  stage.  They 
may  have  been  taught  how  to  speak  and 
how  to  stand,  and  what  to  do  with  their 
hands ;  they  may  know  how  to  take  a 


STAGE  CHILDREN  89 

prompt,  and  realise  the  importance  of  dress- 
ing the  stage  ;  every  trick  and  mannerism 
of  the  grown-up  actor  or  actress  may  be 
theirs  ;  yet,  through  their  playing  there  will 
sound  the  voice  of  childhood,  imaginative, 
adventurous,  insistent,  and  every  perform- 
ance will  supply  them  with  materials  for  a 
new  game.  So  it  was  with  these  children, 
whose  sudden  coming  had  strewn  the  melan- 
choly beach  with  pearls.  I  had  seen  them 
in  the  dimness  of  a  ballet -room  under  Drury 
Lane  Theatre  ;  now,  with  a  coin,  I  bought 
the  right  to  see  them  on  a  stage  built  with 
cynical  impertinence  in  the  midst  of  the 
intolerant  sea.  The  play,  indeed,  was  the 
same,  and  the  players,  but  the  game  was 
different,  The  little  breaks  and  falterings 
which  the  author  had  not  designed,  the  only 
half -suppressed  laughings  which  were  not  in 
the  prompt-copy,  bore  no  relationship,  one 
might  suppose,  to  the  moral  adventures  of 
Mother  Goose.  But  far  across  the  hills  the 
spring  was  breaking  the  buds  on  the  lilac, 
and  far  along  the  shore  the  sea  was  casting 
its  jewels,  and  even  there  in  the  theatre  I 
could  see  the  children  standing  on  tiptoe  to 


90      THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

pick  lilac,  and  stooping  on  the  sands  to 
gather  pearls.  They  did  not  see  that  they 
were  in  a  place  of  lank  ropes  and 
unsmoothed  boards  soiled  with  the  dust 
of  forgotten  pageants  and  rendered  hideous 
by  the  glare  of  electric  lights ;  and  they 
were  right.  For  in  their  eyes  there  shone 
only  that  place  of  adventure  which  delights 
the  feet  of  the  faithful,  whether  they  tread 
the  sands,  or  the  stage,  or  the  rough  cobbles 
of  Drury  Lane.  To  the  truly  imaginative  a 
theatre  is  a  place  of  uncommon  possibilities  ; 
our  actors  and  actresses,  and  even  our  lime- 
light-men, are  not  imaginative,  and  so,  I 
suppose,  they  find  it  ugly.  The  game  is  with 
the  children. 

And  truly  they  play  it  for  what  it  is  worth, 
and  they  are  wise  enough  to  know  that  it  is 
worth  all  things,  alike  on  the  boards  of  the 
theatre  and  on  the  wider,  but  hardly  less 
artificial,  stage  of  civilised  life.  We  who 
are  older  tremble  between  our  desire  for 
applause  and  our  unconquerable  dread  of 
the  angers  of  the  critical  gods  and  the  gaping 
pit,  and  it  is  for  this  reason  that  every 
bitter-wise  adult  knows  himself  to  be  little 


STAGE   CHILDREN  91 

better  than  a  super,  a  unit  of  a  half-intelli- 
gent chorus,  who  may  hope  at  best  to  echo 
with  partial  accuracy  the  songs  and  careless 
laughters  of  the  divine  players.  There  is 
something  pathetic  in  the  business  ;  for  we, 
too,  were  once  stars,  and  thought,  finely 
enough,  to  hold  the  heavens  for  ever  with 
our  dreams.  But  now  we  are  glad  if  the 
limelight  shines  by  accident  for  a  moment 
on  our  faces,  or  if  the  stage-manager  gives 
us  but  one  individual  line.  We  feel,  for  all 
the  sad  fragrance  of  our  old  programmes 
and  newspaper-cuttings,  that  it  is  a  privilege 
to  play  a  part  in  the  pageant  at  all.  The 
game  is  with  the  children  ;  but  if  we  are 
wise,  there  is  still  somewhere  at  the  back 
of  the  stage  a  place  where  each  one  of  us 
can  breathe  the  atmosphere  of  enchantment 
and  dream  the  old  dreams.  No  Arcadia  is 
ever  wholly  lost. 


OXFORD    AND    CAMBRIDGE 

WHEN  I  hear  grown-up  people  discussing  the 
University  Boat  Race  I  smile  sadly  and  hold 
my  peace.  They  may  say  what  they  like 
about  the  latest  Oxford  trial,  or  the  average 
weight  per  man  of  the  Cambridge  crew, 
but  deep  in  my  heart  there  stays  the  con- 
viction that  they  are  making  a  ludicrous 
mistake  in  speaking  about  the  Boat  Race 
at  all.  Once  I  knew  all  about  it,  and  even 
now  I  think  I  could  put  them  right  if  I 
wished.  But  what  is  the  use  of  arguing 
with  persons  who,  under  the  absurd  pretext 
of  fairness,  pretend  to  find  praiseworthy 
features  in  both  crews?  Even  the  smallest 
boy  knew  better  than  that  in  the  days  when 
the  Boat  Race  was  really  important.  I  will 
not  say  that  there  did  not  exist  weaklings 
even  then,  who  wobbled  between  Oxford  and 
Cambridge  in  an  endeavour  to  propitiate 

92 


OXFORD  AND  CAMBRIDGE  93 

both  factions.  But  they  usually  suffered  the 
fate  of  wobblers  by  having  to  join  one  side 
or  the  other,  while  still  incurring  the  scorn 
of  both. 

The  Boat  Race  dawned  upon  us  each  year 
as  a  strange  and  bewildering  element  in  our 
social  relationships.  We  would  part  one 
night  on  normal  terms,  and  the  morrow 
would  find  us  wearing  strange  favours,  and 
regarding  our  friends  of  yesterday  with  open 
and  passionate  dislike.  For  the  sake  of  a 
morsel  of  coloured  ribbon  old  friendships 
would  be  shattered  and  brother  would  meet 
brother  with  ingenious  expressions  of  con- 
tempt. There  was  no  moderate  course  in 
the  matter.  A  boy  was  either  vehemently 
Cambridge  or  intolerably  Oxford,  and  it 
would  have  been  easier  to  account  for  the 
colour  of  his  hair  than  to  explain  how  he 
arrived  at  his  choice  of  a  university.  Some 
blind  instinct,  some  subtle  influence  felt,  per- 
haps, in  the  dim,  far-off  nursery  days  may 
have  determined  this  weighty  choice  ;  but  the 
whole  problem  was  touched  with  the  mystery 
that  inspired  the  great  classical  and  modern 
snowball  fights,  when  little  boys  would  pound 


94      THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

each  other  almost  into  a  state  of  unconscious- 
ness for  the  sake  of  a  theory  of  education. 
Our  interest  in  the  Boat  Race  as  a  boat 
race  was  small,  and  quite  untroubled  by  any 
knowledge  of  the  respective  merits  of  the 
crews.  But  we  wore  their  colours  in  our 
buttonholes,  and  the  effect  of  these  badges 
on  our  lives  was  anarchic.  We  saw  blue. 

It  was  my  fate  to  drift,  fatally  and  im- 
mutably Cambridge,  into  a  school  that  had 
a  crushing  Oxford  majority.  In  these  cir- 
cumstances, the  light-blue  ribbon  became,  for 
the  small  and  devoted  band  that  upheld  the 
Cambridge  tradition  of  valour,  the  cause  of 
endless  but  never  conclusive  defeats,  the 
symbol  of  a  splendid  martyrdom.  Try 
as  we  might,  we  found  ourselves  always 
in  a  minority,  and,  to  add  to  our  bitterness, 
these  years  of  luckless  warfare  coincided 
with  a  series  of  Cambridge  defeats,  and  we 
knew  ourselves  the  supporters  of  a  forlorn 
and  discredited  cause.  And  yet,  Fate  having 
decreed  that  we  should  be  Cambridge,  we 
did  not  falter  before  our  hopeless  task  of 
convincing  the  majority  that  it  was  made 
of  baser  stuff  than  we.  We  would  arrive 


OXFORD  AND  CAMBRIDGE  95 

in  the  morning  with  our  colours  stitched  to 
our  coats,  and  when,  overwhelmed  by  num- 
bers, we  lost  our  dear  favours  we  would 
retire  to  a  place  apart,  repair  the  loss  from 
a  secret  store  of  ribbon,  and  dash  once  more 
into  the  fray.  The  others  might  be  Oxford 
when  they  had  a  mind  to,  but  we  were 
Cambridge— Cambridge  all  the  time. 

Our  contests  were  always  fierce,  but  only 
once  so  far  as  I  remember  did  they  become 
really  venomous.  Some  ingenious  Cam- 
bridge mind  had  hit  on  the  idea  of  protect- 
ing his  badge  with  a  secret  battery  of  pins, 
and  there  ensued  a  series  of  real  and 
desperate  fights  that  threatened  our  clan 
with  physical  extinction.  The  trouble  passed 
as  suddenly  as  it  had  arisen  ;  a  mysterious 
rumour  went  round  the  clans  that  pins  were 
bad  form  ;  and  there  was  a  lull  while  Cam- 
bridge treated  their  black  eyes  and  Oxford 
put  sticking-plaster  on  their  torn  fingers. 
Pleasanter  to  remember  is  the  famous  retort 

of  L ,  an  utterance  so  finely  dramatic  that 

even  to-day  I  cannot  recall  it  without  a 
thrill.  Caught  apart  from  his  comrades,  he 
was  surrounded  by  the  Oxford  rabble,  and 


96   THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

robbed  of  his  colours.  "  You  aren't  Cam- 
bridge now,"  said  one  of  his  assailants,  mock- 
ingly. "  Ah,  but  the  sky  is  Cambridge  ! " 
he  replied,  and  indeed  it  was.  We  had  our 
little  victories  to  dull  the  edge  of  our  defeats. 
And  yet,  probably,  we  of  Cambridge  were 
not  altogether  sorry  when  the  Boat  Race 
was  over,  and  the  business  might  be  for- 
gotten for  another  eleven  months,  for  we 
had  but  little  rest  while  the  war  of  the 
ribbons  was  in  the  air.  If  we  sought  to 
take  a  quiet  walk  round  the  quad,  the  chance 
was  that  a  boy,  too  small  perhaps  to  keep 
a  favour  even  for  a  minute,  but  with  a  light- 
blue  heart,  would  run  up  with  tidings  of 
some  comrade  hardly  beset  in  the  cloisters, 
and  the  battle  must  be  begun  again.  These 
contests  were  sometimes  the  cause  of  tem- 
porary friendships,  for  in  the  course  of  the 
tumult  one  would  find  oneself  indebted  to 
a  year-long  enemy  for  the  timely  discomfiture 
of  one's  opponent,  who  in  his  turn  might  be, 
normally,  one's  bosom  companion.  For  no 
tie  was  sacred  enough  to  overcome  this 
vernal  madness  of  the  Blues.  If  a  fellow 
was  base  enough  to  be  Oxford,  his  presence 


97 

in  the  world  was  unnecessary,  his  society 
tabooed.  And,  as  I  have  said,  even  brothers 
would  bang  each  other's  heads  for  the  beauty 
of  the  Idea. 

Then  came  a  day  when  age  and  respon- 
sibility changed  our  views  on  a  good  many 
things,  and  the  Boat  Race  was  not  spared. 
Forgetful  of  the  old  triumphs  and  the  old 
despairs,  we  preferred  to  treat  ourselves  and 
life  in  more  sober  terms,  while  smiling 
tolerantly  at  the  little  boys  playing  their 
rough  games  beneath  our  feet.  Leaning  for- 
ward with  hands  eager  to  clutch  our 
manhood,  we  would  not  for  worlds  have 
compromised  our  new  position  by  taking  an 
interest  in  such  childish  trifles  as  coloured 
ribbons.  So  the  game  went  on  without  us, 
and  the  measure  of  our  loss  is  the  measure  of 
the  loss  of  the  earth  when  the  spring  melts 
into  summer. 

To-day  I  hear  persons  discussing  the  Boat 
Race  in  railway-carriages,  and  in  face  of 
their  dispassionate  judgments  I  ask  myself 
whether  they  can  ever  have  sung  for  it  and 
fought  for  it,  and,  let  it  be  added,  wept  for 
it,  as  I  have  done.  In  truth,  I  suppose  they 

8 


98   THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

have ;  for  boys  do  not  differ  widely  in  these 
essential  things.  But  these  people  do  not 
fight ;  they  do  not  even  wear  the  ribbon  ! 
While  it  is  open  to  a  man  to  ignore  the  Boat 
Race  altogether,  I  cannot  understand  his 
approaching  the  contest  in  so  miserable  a 
spirit. 


HAROLD 

I  SUPPOSE  that  every  one  has  made  the 
acquaintance  of  the  subject  of  this  little 
biography  at  some  time  or  other,  though  to 
others  he  may  not  have  appeared  as  he  has 
appeared  to  me,  and,  as  I  know,  he  has 
been  called  by  many  names.  Indeed,  when 
I  consider  that  there  have  been  men  and 
women  who  have  sought  his  society  with  a 
passionate  eagerness,  it  is  clear  to  me  that 
his  disguises  must  be  extremely  subtle,  and 
that  he  employs  them  with  a  just  regard  for 
the  personalities  of  his  companions.  For 
while  some  have  found  in  his  society  the 
ultimate  splendour  of  life,  for  me  he  has 
always  been  wearisome  and  ridiculously 
mean. 

Of  course  it  may  be  that  I  have  known  him 
too  long,  for  even  as  a  child  I  was  accus- 
tomed to  find  him  at  my  side,  an  unwelcome 
guest  who  came  and  went  by  no  law  that 


100    THE   DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 


youthful  mind  could  determine.  Cer- 
tainly in  those  days  he  was  more  capricious, 
and  the  method  of  argument  by  repetition, 
which  he  still  employs,  was  only  too  well 
calculated  to  weary  and  distress  a  child.  But 
for  the  rest,  the  Harold  whom  I  knew  then 
was  materially  the  Harold  whom  I  know 
now.  Conceive  a  small  man  so  severely 
afflicted  with  St.  Vitus's  dance  that  his 
features  are  hardly  definable,  endow  him 
with  a  fondness  for  clothes  of  dull  colours 
grievously  decorated  with  spots,  and  a  habit 
of  asking  meaningless  questions  over  and 
over  again  in  an  utterly  unemotional  voice, 
and  you  will  be  able  to  form  a  not  unfair 
estimate  of  the  joys  of  Harold's  society. 
There  have  been  exceptions,  however,  to  the 
detestable  colourlessness  of  Harold's  appear- 
ance. I  have  seen  him  on  occasion  dressed 
in  flaming  red,  like  Mephistopheles,  and  his 
shrill  staccato  voice  has  pierced  my  head 
like  a  corkscrew.  But  these  manifestations 
have  always  been  brief,  and  might  even  be 
considered  enjoyable  when  compared  with 
the  unrestful  monotony  of  Harold's  society 
in  general. 


HAROLD  101 

Who  taught  me  to  call  him  by  the  noble 
name  of  Harold  I  do  not  know,  but  in  my 
youthful  days  the  man's  character  was  oddly 
associated  with  the  idea  of  virtue  as  ex- 
pounded in  the  books  I  read  on  Sunday 
afternoons.  That  I  hated  him  was,  I  felt, 
merely  a  fitting  attribute  in  one  whose 
instincts  were  admittedly  bad,  but  I  did  not 
allow  the  consideration  to  affect  my  re- 
joicings when  I  escaped  from  his  company. 
Curiously,  too,  I  perceived  that  the  Olym- 
pians were  with  me  in  this,  and  since  the 
moral  soundness  of  those  improving  books 
was  beyond  question,  I  had  grave  doubts 
as  to  their  ultimate  welfare.  But  it  was 
always  an  easy  task  to  detect  the  Olympians 
tripping  in  their  own  moralities  ;  they  had 
so  many. 

As  time  went  on,  and  I  grew  out  of  the 
Sunday  books  and  all  that  they  stood  for,  I 
came  to  believe  that  I  was  growing  out  of 
Harold  too.  His  appearances  became  rare, 
and,  from  his  point  of  view,  a  little  ineffec- 
tive. It  pleased  me  to  consider  with  a 
schoolboy's  arrogance  that  he  was  little 
more  than  a  child's  nightmare,  and  that  if 


102    THE   DAY  BEFORE   YESTERDAY 

a  man  turned  to  fight  him  Harold  would 
vanish.  For  a  while  Harold,  in  his  cunning, 
played  up  to  this  idea.  He  would  seek  my 
side  timidly,  and  fly  at  a  word.  The  long, 
sleepless  nights  of  childhood  and  the  weary 
days  were  forgotten,  and  I  made  of  him  a 
jest.  Sometimes  I  wondered  whether  he 
really  existed. 

And  then  he  came.  At  first  I  was  only 
mildly  astonished  when  I  found  that  nothing 
I  could  say  would  make  him  leave  me,  but 
as  the  hours  passed  the  old  hatred  asserted 
itself,  and  to  fight  the  little  man  with  the 
dull  voice  and  the  cruel  spots  on  his  clothes 
seemed  all  that  there  was  in  life  to  do.  The 
hours  passed  into  days  and  nights,  and 
sometimes  I  was  passive  in  the  hope  that 
he  might  weary,  sometimes  I  shouted 
answers  to  his  questions— the  same  answer 
to  the  same  question— over  and  over  again. 
I  felt,  too,  that  if  I  could  only  see  his 
features  plainly  for  a  moment  he  would 
disappear,  and  I  would  stare  at  him  until 
the  sky  grew  red  as  my  eyes.  But  I  could 
not  see  him  clearly,  and  the  world  became 
a  thing  of  dull  colours,  terrible  with  spots. 


HAROLD  103 

By  now  I  was  fighting  him  with  a  sense  of 
my  own  fatuity,  for  I  felt  that  nothing  would 
make  this  man  fight  fairly.  His  voice  had 
fallen  to  a  passionless  whisper  and  the  spots 
on  his  clothes  swelled  into  obscene  blotches 
and  burst  like  over -ripe  fruit.  It  was  then 
that  the  chloroform  clutched  me  by  the 
throat.  I  have  never  known  anything  on 
earth  more  sweet. 

Since  then,  it  seems  to  me,  Harold  has 
never  been  quite  the  same.  He  comes  to 
see  me  now  and  again,  and  sometimes  even 
he  lingers  by  my  side.  But  there  is  a  note 
of  doubt  about  him  that  I  do  not  remem- 
ber to  have  noticed  before— some  of  his 
former  spirit  would  seem  to  be  lacking,  and 
I  am  forced  to  wonder  sometimes  whether 
Harold  is  not  ageing.  And,  though  it  may 
appear  strange,  the  thought  inspires  me  with 
a  certain  regret.  I  do  not  like  the  man, 
and  I  should  be  mad  to  seek  him  of  my  own 
accord,  but  in  fairness  I  must  acknowledge 
that  in  a  negative  way  he  has  contributed 
to  all  the  pleasures  I  have  enjoyed.  Sunsets 
and  roses  and  the  white  light  of  the  stars— 
I  owe  my  appreciation  of  them  all  to  Harold  ; 


104    THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

and  I  know  that  it  is  by  aid  of  his  keen 
realism  that  I  have  founded  the  city  of  my 
dreams.  It  will  be  a  grey  world  when 
Harold  is  no  more. 


ON   DIGGING   HOLES 

WHEN  all  the  world  was  young  and  we  were 
young  with  it  there  was  no  occupation  more 
pleasing  to  our  infant  minds  than  the  digging 
of  great  holes  in  that  placid  and  maternal 
earth  that  endured  the  trampling  of  our 
childish  feet  with  patience,  and  betrayed  no 
realisation  of  the  extraordinary  miracle  of 
life  that  had  set  us  dancing  in  the  fields 
and  valleys  of  the  world.  As  repentant 
children  trace  with  curious  finger  on  their 
mother's  foreheads  the  lines  that  they  them- 
selves have  set  there,  so  we  followed  the 
furrows  on  the  forehead  of  our  mother  Earth 
with  our  little  spades,  smoothing  here  and 
deepening  there,  and  not  the  less  contented 
that  our  labours  had  but  a  vague  and  illusory 
aim.  Sometimes,  perhaps,  we  had  a  half- 
formed  ambition  to  dig  to  those  dim  and 
incredible  Antipodes  where  children  walk 


105 


106    THE   DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

head  downwards,  clinging  to  the  earth  with 
their  feet,  like  the  flies  on  the  playroom 
ceiling.  Sometimes,  perhaps,  we  dug  for 
treasure,  immense  masses  of  golden  coin, 
like  those  memorable  hoards  described  in 
"Treasure  Island"  and  the  "Gold  Bug."  Or, 
again,  it  might  be  that  we  planned  vast  caves 
and  galleries  wherein  tawny  pirates  and 
swart  smugglers  might  carouse,  shocking  the 
echoes  with  blood-curdling  oaths,  and  drink- 
ing boiling  rum  like  Quilp.  We  dug,  in 
fine. 

There  seems  to  be  some  element  in  the 
human  mind  that  is  definitely  attracted  by 
the  digging  of  holes,  for  it  is  not  only 
children  who  are  interested  by  the  spectacle. 
The  genial  excavators  whose  duty  it  is  to 
make  havoc  of  the  London  streets  never  fail 
to  draw  an  attentive  and  apparently  appre- 
ciative audience,  whether  of  loafers  or  philo- 
sophers the  critic  may  not  lightly  determine. 
They  gaze  into  the  pit  with  countenances 
of  abysmal  profundity,  that  appear  to  see 
all,  to  understand  all,  and  to  express  nothing 
in  particular.  It  is  possible  that  they  are 
placidly  enjoying  the  reflection  that  beneath 


ON  DIGGING  HOLES  107 

the  complex  contrivances  of  our  civilisation, 
beneath  London  itself,  the  virgin  earth  lies 
unturned  and  unaffected.  Perhaps,  as  each 
spadeful  of  earth  reaches  the  surface,  they 
perceive,  like  a  child  watching  the  sawdust 
trickle  from  the  broken  head  of  a  doll,  that 
here  is  the  raw  material  of  which  worlds 
are  made.  Perhaps  they  do  not  think  at  all, 
but  merely  derive  a  mild  satisfaction  from 
watching  other  people  work.  Yet  it  is  at 
least  agreeable  to  believe  that  they  are 
watchers  for  the  unexpected,  that  they  have 
discovered  the  great  truth  that  if  you  dig 
long  enough  you  will  probably  dig  some- 
thing up. 

We  children  knew  this  very  well,  and  we 
never  dug  without  feeling  the  thrill  proper 
to  treasure-seekers.  Even  half  a  brick 
becomes  eventful  when  found  in  these 
circumstances,  and  the  earth  had  a 
hundred  pleasant  secrets  in  the  shape  of 
fragments  of  pottery,  mysterious  lumps  of 
metal  and  excited  insects  for  those 
who  approached  her  reverently,  trowel 
in  hand.  It  was  this  variety  of  treasure 
that  made  us  prefer  inland  digging 


108    THE   DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

to  those  more  fashionable  excavations 
that  are  carried  on  at  the  seaside.  Sand 
is  a  friendly  substance  in  which  to  dig,  and 
it  is  very  convenient  to  have  a  supply  of 
water  like  the  sea  close  at  hand  when  it 
is  necessary  to  fill  a  pond  or  add  a  touch  of 
realism  to  a  moat.  But  the  ease  with 
which  sand  obeys  the  spade  soon  becomes 
monotonous,  and  the  seaside  in  general 
suffers  from  an  air  of  having  been  elabo- 
rately prepared  for  children  to  play  there. 
Our  delving  operations  in  the  garden  had 
the  charm  of  nominal  illegality,  and  the 
brown  earth  had  a  hundred  moods  to  thwart 
and  help  and  enchant  us  continually.  Some- 
times we  dug  with  scientific  precision  ;  some- 
times we  set  to  work  with  fury,  flinging  the 
earth  to  all  sides  in  our  eagerness  to  rob  her 
of  her  secrets.  A  'philosopher  might  have 
found  in  us  a  striking  instance  of  the  revolt 
of  civilised  man  against  Nature  ;  a  woman 
would  have  noticed  that  we  were  getting  our 
pinafores  dirty. 

And  though  we  liked  digging  for  its  own 
sake,  we  were  not  unmindful  of  the  possi- 
bilities of  a  good  big  hole.  From  its  cool 


ON  DIGGING  HOLES  109 

depths  we  could  obtain  a  new  aspect  of  the 
sky ;     and,     cunningly     roofed     over     with 
branches  and  earth,  it  made  a  snug  retreat 
for    a    harassed    brigand    and    a    surprising 
pitfall  for  the  unwary  gardener.     In  smaller 
cavities    we    concealed    treasure    of    stones 
decked  with  the  colours  left  behind  by  the 
painters  at  the  last  spring-cleaning,  and  if 
we  could  not  wholly  convince  ourselves  of 
their    intrinsic    value,    they    at    least    bore 
adequate    resemblance    to    the    treasures    of 
Aladdin's  cave,  as  revealed  to  us  in  panto- 
mime.    We  kept  the  knowledge  of  the  spots 
where  these  treasures  were  buried  a  close 
secret,   even    from   each   other,   and   it   was 
etiquette    for    the    finder    of    one    of    these 
repositories  to  remove  its  contents  and  con- 
ceal them  elsewhere.     The  conflict  between 
seeker  and  finder  never  languished,  and  men 
who  rose  up  millionaires  would  go  to  bed 
paupers. 

Like  all  sincere  artists,  we  did  not  allow 
our  own  efforts  to  hinder  a  just  appreciation 
of  those  of  others,  and  we  had  the  utmost 
admiration  for  rabbits,  down  whose 
enchanted  burrows  we  would  peer  long- 


110    THE   DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

ingly,  reflecting  wisely  how  fine  a  home  it 
must  be  that  had  so  romantic  and  fasci- 
nating an  entrance.  For  us  half  the  charm 
of  "  Alice "  lay  in  the  natural  and  sensible 
means  by  which  she  reached  her  wonder- 
land, though  we  could  never  bring  ourselves 
to  forgive  the  author  for  pretending  that  his 
clearly  veracious  narrative  was  only  a 
dream.  This,  we  recognised,  was  an 
obvious  grown-up  device  for  preventing 
the  youthful  from  slipping  away  from 
governesses  to  wonderlands  of  their  own, 
and  true  enough  we  found  rabbit -holes  oddly 
reluctant  to  admit  our  small  bodies,  even 
though  we  widened  their  mouths  with  our 
trowels.  Looking-glasses,  it  may  be  men- 
tioned, proved  no  less  refractory,  and  at  this 
day,  it  is  said,  children  find  it  impossible 
to  emulate  the  flying  feats  of  "  Peter  Pan," 
though  they  carefully  follow  the  directions. 
It  is  clear  that  these  grown-up  authors  are 
not  wholly  straightforward  with  their  youth- 
ful readers,  but  guard  the  Olympian  interests 
by  concealing  some  essential  part  of  the 
ritual  in  these  matters.  Sooner  or  later  the 
children  find  them  out,  and  expel  them  from 


ON  DIGGING  HOLES  111 

all  nurseries,  playrooms,  gardens,  and  places 
where  youth  and  wisdom  congregate. 

But  if  we  could  not  tread  those  long 
corridors  into  which  the  rabbits  scuttled  so 
featly  on  our  approach,  there  was  nothing  to 
hinder  us  from  digging  a  tunnel  to  fairy- 
land of  our  own.  The  grand  project  formed, 
all  the  forces  of  the  garden  would  unite,  and 
we  would  dig  seriously  for  an  hour  or  so. 
At  the  end  of  that  time  somebody's  foot  would 
be  hurt  by  a  spade,  or  some  bright  spirit 
would  suggest  that  we  should  fill  the  hole 
with  water  and  call  it  a  lake.  Or,  perhaps, 
it  would  be  teatime — at  all  events,  we  never 
got  to  fairyland  at  all.  Or  did  we?  As  we 
grow  old  our  memories  fade,  but  dimly  I 
seem  to  remember  a  garden  that  was  like 
no  garden  I  have  found  in  grown-up  places. 
It  is  possible  that  we  did  reach  fairyland, 
treading  the  same  road  that  Alice  and 
Cinderella  and  Aladdin  had  trod  before 
us.  Perhaps  a  grown-up  writer  may  be 
pardoned  for  forgetting. 


REAL    CRICKET 

I  AM  willing  to  leave  to  other  and  more 
skilful  hands  the  pleasure  of  narrating  the 
joys  and  trials  of  county  cricket,  club  cricket, 
and  the  splendid  cricket  of  country  houses 
and  village  greens.  Not  that  my  task  is  the 
more  modest,  for,  having  a  just  regard  for 
relative  values,  I  think  that  it  is  of  cricket 
I  write,  such  cricket  as  small  boys  play  in 
dreams  (ah,  me,  those  sixes  that  small  boys 
hit  in  dreams  !) ;  such  cricket  as  the  ghosts 
enjoy  at  nights  at  Lord's.  It  is  well  for  the 
eye  to  take  pleasure  in  shining  flannels  and 
ivory-white  boots  ;  there  is  a  thrill  in  the 
science  of  the  game,  the  swerve  of  the  new 
red  ball,  the  quick  play  of  the  batsmen's 
feet ;  but  I  think  that  when  good  cricketers 
die  it  is  not  to  such  elaborate  sport  as  this 
that  they  betake  themselves  in  the  happy 
playing-fields.  To  mow  the  astonished 


112 


REAL  CRICKET  113 

daisies  in  quick  retort  to  the  hardly 
gentlemanly  sneak  ;  to  pull  like  Mr.  Jessop 
because  one  knows  no  better  ;  to  be  bowled 
by  every  straight  yorker  ;  to  slog  at  full 
pitches  with  close-shut  eyes  ;  thus  and  thus 
only  is  the  cricket  of  Arcadia. 

In  its  simplest  form  we  played  it  in  the 
garden  after  dinner,  but  even  here  environ- 
ment and  our  imaginations  combined  to  make 
it  complicated.  The  lawn  was  small,  and 
there  were  flower-beds  and  windows  to  be 
considered.  The  former  did  not  trouble  us 
very  much  ;  indeed,  we  lopped  the  French 
lilies  with  a  certain  glee,  but  a  broken 
window  was  a  more  serious  business,  and 
lofty  drives  to  the  off  were  therefore  dis- 
couraged. Yet  once,  I  recollect,  the  ball  was 
sent  through  the  same  window  three  times  in 
an  afternoon.  Of  course,  the  unfortunate 
batsman  who  allowed  his  enthusiasm  thus  to 
outdrive  his  discretion  was  out,  as  also  was 
he  who  hit  the  ball  into  the  next  garden. 
But  this  latter  rule  was  rather  conventional 
than  imposed  by  necessity,  for  we  were 
fortunate  in  the  possession  of  a  charming 

neighbour ;    and    sometimes    youth,    adven- 

9 


114    THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

turing  in  search  of  cricket-balls,  would  be 
regaled  with  seed-cake  and  still  lemonade, 
and  return  rampant  to  his  comrades.  But 
the  great  zest  of  our  games  lay  in  our  im- 
personation of  real  famous  cricketers.  We 
would  take  two  county  sides,  and  divide  the 
roles  of  their  members  amongst  us,  so  that 
each  of  us  would  represent  two  or  three 
members  of  each  team.  The  score-sheets 
of  these  matches  would  convey  a  strange 
impression  to  the  erudition  of  the  New 
Zealander.  For  the  greatest  cricketers  failed 
to  score  frequently,  and,  indeed,  inevitably 
if  they  happend  to  be  left-handed  bats.  So 
far  our  passion  for  accuracy  carried  us,  but, 
like  Tom  Sawyer,  we  had  to  "  lay  on  "  that 
we  bowled  left-handed  when  it  was  in  the 
part,  while  realistic  impersonations  of 
lightning  bowlers  were  too  dangerous  to 
the  batsman  to  be  permitted. 

These  great  contests  did  not  pass  without 
minor  disagreements.  The  rights  of  age  were 
by  no  means  waived,  and  in  those  days  I 
was  firmly  convinced  that  the  l.b.w.  rule  had 
been  invented  by  the  M.C.C.  to  assist  elder 
brothers  in  getting  their  rights.  Moreover, 


REAL  CRICKET  115 

there  was  always  high  argument  over  the 
allocation  of  the  parts  of  the  more  popular 
cricketers.  My  sister,  I  remember,  would 
retire  wrath  fully  from  the  game  if  she  were 
not  allowed  to  be  K.  J.  Key,  and  so,  when 
Surrey  was  playing,  we  had  to  permit  her 
to  be  titular  captain.  Girls  are  very  keen 
at  cricket,  but  they  are  not  good  at  it.  Or 
perhaps  in  the  course  of  the  game  "  W.  G.  " 
would  find  it  necessary  to  chase  Lockwood 
all  over  the  field  for  bowling  impudently  well. 
Yet  while  we  mimicked  our  elders  we  secretly 
thought  Olympian  cricket  a  poor,  unimagina- 
tive game  without  any  quarrels.  It  was 
thrilling  to  bat  for  the  honour  of  Mr.  Fry, 
or  to  make  a  fine  catch  in  the  long  field  for 
Mr.  Mason's  sake,  but  our  personal  idiosyn- 
crasies also  had  their  value. 

When  we  went  away  for  our  holidays  it 
was  ours  to  adventure  with  bat  and  ball  on 
unaccustomed  grounds  :  meadow  cricket  was 
tiresome,  for  the  ball  would  hide  itself  in 
the  long  grass  ;  and  seaside  cricket,  though 
exhilarating,  was  too  public  a  business  to 
be  taken  really  seriously.  But  cricket  in 
the  pinewoods  was  delightful — almost,  I 


116    THE    DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

think,  the  best  cricket  of  all.  The  soft 
needles  made  an  admirable  pitch,  and  we 
had  all  the  trees  for  fielders.  If  you  hit 
the  ball  against  a  tree  full-pitch,  you  were 
out,  and  it  was  strange  how  those  patient, 
silent  fieldsmen,  who  never  dropped  catches, 
seemed  to  arrange  themselves,  as  the  game 
progressed,  in  the  conventional  places  in  the 
field.  Point  would  be  there,  and  mid-off,  and 
some  safe  men  in  the  slips.  Overhead  the 
birds  would  call  in  the  trees,  and  there  were 
queer  echoes  when  you  hit  the  ball  hard,  as 
though  Pan  were  watching  from  some  dim 
pavilion  and  crying  his  applause.  Really 
I  wonder  how  we  dared,  or  perhaps  it  were 
fitter  to  wonder  why  we  dare  no  longer. 

The  oddest  cricket  I  ever  played  was  with 
a  gardener,  a  reticent,  impassive  man,  who 
came  and  played  with  me  when  sudden 
mumps  had  exiled  me  from  my  holiday- 
making  comrades.  He  would  bowl  to  me 
silently  for  hours,  only  parting  his  lips  now 
and  again  to  murmur  the  name  of  the  stump 
which  he  proposed  to  hit  with  his  next  ball, 
and  no  efforts  of  mine  could  prevent  his  grim 
prophecies  from  being  fulfilled.  When  I  gave 


REAL  CRICKET  117 

him  his  innings  he  would  pat  my  widest 
and  most  wily  balls  back  to  me  politely 
until  he  thought  I  was  tired,  and  then  he 
would  let  me  bowl  him.  This  unequal  con- 
test was  not  cricket  as  I  knew  it,  but  it 
fascinated  me  nevertheless.  At  night  in  my 
bed  I  would  hit  his  bowling  all  over  the 
world  and  upset  his  stumps  with  monotonous 
ease.  By  day  I  could  only  serve  his  humour. 
The  devil  was  in  the  man. 

The  bats  with  which  we  played  were 
normal  save  in  size,  but  the  balls  varied. 
In  times  of  prosperity  we  had  real  leather 
cricket-balls,  but  the  balls  known  as 
"  compos  "  were  more  common.  When  new 
they  had  a  noble  appearance,  but  use  made 
them  rough  and  like  dry  earth  in  the  hand, 
and  then  they  were  apt  to  sting  the  fingers 
of  the  unwary  cricketer.  The  most  perilous 
kind  of  ball  of  all  was  the  size  of  a  cricket- 
ball,  but  made  of  solid  rubber,  and  deadly 
alike  to  batsman  and  fieldsman.  For  some 
reason  or  other  the  proper  place  in  which 
to  carry  a  cricket-ball  was  the  trousers,  or 
rather  knickerbockers,  pocket.  The  curious 
discomfort  of  this  practice  lingers  in  the 


118    THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

mind.  Soft  balls  are  of  no  use  in  real 
cricket ;  but  if  you  bore  a  hole  in  them 
and  fill  them  with  water  they  make  very 
good  bombs  for  practical  anarchists. 

Later  came  school  cricket,  but  it  is 
significant  that  the  impression  that  lingers 
is  of  the  long  drives  home  in  the  dusk 
from  out-matches  rather  than  of  the 
cricket  itself.  We  would  walk  up  the 
hills  to  rest  the  horses,  playing  "  touch " 
and  imprisoning  unfortunate  glow-worms 
in  wooden  matchboxes.  And  later  still 
came  visits  to  Lord's  and  the  Oval,  when 
it  was  my  fortune  to  see  some  of  our  old 
heroes  in  the  flesh.  Certainly  they  made 
more  runs  than  they  had  been  wont  to  do 

in  the  past,  but It  is  not  wise  to  examine 

our  heroes  too  closely,  though  I  am  not  alone 
in  thinking  that  first-class  cricketers  are 
lacking  a  little  in  the  old  spirit.  Indeed, 
how  can  they  hope  to  keep  it,  they  who 
are  grown  so  wise? 


THE   BOY   IN  THE   GARDEN 

THERE  were  two  kinds  of  gardening  to 
employ  our  sunny  hours— the  one  concerned 
with  the  vast  tracts  of  the  Olympians,  the 
other  with  the  cultivation  of  those  intimate 
patches  of  earth  known  as  "  the  children's 
gardens,"  wherein  was  waged  an  endless 
contest  between  Nature  and  our  views  of 
what  a  garden  should  be.  Of  the  joys  of 
this  nobler  order  of  tillage  I  have  written 
elsewhere,  and  I  may  not  penetrate  now 
into  that  mysterious  world  beyond  the  shrub- 
bery, where  plants  assumed  the  proportions 
of  mammoth  trees,  and  beds  of  mustard-and- 
cress  took  the  imaginative  eye  of  youth  as 
boundless  prairies.  But  if  the  conventional 
aims  of  grown-up  gardening  set  limits  to 
our  fancy,  if  their  ideal  of  beauty  in  the 
garden— unfriendly  as  it  was  to  cricket  and 
the  fiercer  outbreaks  of  Indians — was  none 


120     THE   DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

of  ours,  we  found,  nevertheless,  certain 
details  in  the  process  by  which  they  sought 
to  attain  their  illusory  ends  stimulating  and 
wholly  delightful.  Flowers  might  inspire  in 
us  no  more  than  a  rare  and  short-lived  curi- 
osity, but  the  watering-pot  (and  even  better 
the  garden -hose)  were  our  very  good  friends. 
Tidiness  was  no  merit  in  the  garden  of  our 
dreams,  but  our  song  of  joy  rose  straight 
to  heaven  with  the  smoke  of  bonfires. 
Meadows  were  more  to  our  taste  than  the 
prim  culture  of  lawns,  but  in  our  hands  the 
lawn-mower  became  a  flaming  chariot,  and 
we  who  drove  it  as  unscorched  Phaetons 
praised  for  the  zest  with  which  we  pursued 
our  pleasure  by  all  Olympus. 

It  was  one  of  the  charms  of  childhood 
that  such  praise  would  sometimes  fall  from 
the  lips  of  our  rulers  as  suddenly  and  as 
mysteriously  as  their  censure.  It  was 
pleasant,  after  a  gorgeous  afternoon  spent 
in  extinguishing  imaginary  conflagrations 
with  the  garden  house  to  be  congratulated  on 
the  industry  with  which  we  had  watered  the 
flowers.  It  was  pleasant  to  be  rewarded 
with  chocolates  from  France  for  burning 


THE  BOY  IN  THE  GARDEN         121 

witches  on  the  rubbish -heap  behind  the 
greenhouse.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  we  never 
"  helped  "  the  gardener  unless  it  suited  us, 
and  we  would  have  hidden  in  the  shrubbery 
a  whole  day  rather  than  be  entrapped  into 
half  an  hour's  weeding— an  occupation  which 
we  regarded  in  the  light  of  a  severe  punish- 
ment. And  the  odd  confusion  in  the 
grown-up  mind  between  right  and  wrong 
never  ceased  to  intrigue  us.  When  my  elder 
brother,  in  a  sentimental  hour,  flung  a 
wreath  of  roses  on  to  the  stately  head  of 
the  aunt  of  the  moment,  we  knew  that  it 
was  a  pretty  thought,  very  happily  trans- 
lated into  action  ;  but  the  Olympians  treated 
it  as  a  crime.  Yet  it  was  not  his  fault  that 
the  thorns  tore  her  hair  ;  had  there  been 
any  thornless  roses  he  would  probably  have 
used  them.  And,  being  honest,  we  wondered 
no  less  when  we  were  praised  for  playing 
with  the  garden-hose,  that  coiled  about  our 
legs  like  wet  snakes,  and  made  our  stockings 
wet  on  the  warmest  summer  day  ;  for  in 
our  hearts  we  knew  that  into  any  occupation 
so  pleasant  must  surely  enter  the  elements 
of  crime.  But  the  rulers  of  our  destiny 


122    THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

would  bid  us  change  our  wet  clothes  with  a 
calm  brow,  and  would  congratulate  each 
other  on  our  interest  in  the  garden.  We 
lived  in  a  strange  world. 

The  judgments  of  the  gardener  we  could 
better  understand,  though,  alas  !  we  had  to 
sum  him  up  as  unreliable.  He  was  a  twisted 
little  man  who  had  been  to  sea  in  his  youth, 
and  we  knew  that  he  had  been  a  pirate 
because  he  had  a  red  face,  an  enormous 
clasp-knife,  and  knew  how  to  make  every 
imaginable  kind  of  knot.  Moreover,  there 
was  a  small  barrel  in  the  tool -house  that 
had  manifestly  held  gunpowder  once  upon 
a  time.  Such  evidence  as  this  was  not  to 
be  refuted,  but  we  had  to  conclude  that  he 
had  been  driven  from  the  High  Seas  in  dis- 
grace, for  he  was  pitifully  lacking  in  the 
right  pirate  spirit.  No  pirate,  we  felt, 
would  have  taken  the  tale  of  our  petty  mis- 
deeds to  the  Olympian  courts  for  settlement, 
yet  this  is  what  Esau  did  under  cover  of  a 
duplicity  that  aggravated  the  offence.  In  one 
and  the  same  hour  he  would  expound  to  us 
the  intricacies  of  the  Chinese  knot  with 
many  friendly  and  sensible  observations, 


THE   BOY  IN  THE   GARDEN         123 

and  tell  the  shocked  Olympians  that  we  had 
thrown  his  rose-sticks  all  over  the  garden 
in  the  manner  of  javelins.  Captain  Shark, 
of  the  barque  Rapacious,  would  not  have 
acted  like  this,  if  it  was  conceivable  that 
that  sinister  hero  could  have  turned 
gardener.  Perhaps  he  would  have  smitten 
us  sorely  with  the  Dutch  hoe,  or  scalped  us 
with  his  pruning-knife  by  means  of  a  neat 
twist  learnt  in  Western  America,  but  what- 
ever form  his  revenge  might  have  assumed 
he  would  have  scorned  to  betray  us  to  the 
people  who  had  forgotten  how  to  play. 
Esau  was  a  sad  knave. 

And,  unlike  the  Olympians,  he  had  no 
illusions  as  to  the  value  of  our  labours  in 
the  garden,  treating  our  generous  assistance 
with  the  scantiest  gratitude,  and  crediting 
our  enthusiasm  with  the  greater  part  of 
Nature's  shortcomings.  Whenever  our  horti- 
cultural efforts  became  at  all  spirited  he 
would  start  up  suddenly  from  behind  a  hedge 
and  admonish  us  as  the  boy  in  "  Prunella  " 
admonishes  the  birds.  He  would  not  allow 
us  to  irrigate  the  flower-beds  by  means  of 
a  system  of  canals  ;  he  checked,  or  at  least 


attempted  to  check,  our  consumption  of 
fruit,  deliciously  unripe  (has  any  one  noticed 
that  an  unripe  greengage  eaten  fresh  from 
the  tree  is  a  gladder  thing  than  any  ripe 
fruit  ?) ;  he  would  not  let  us  play  at  execu- 
tions with  the  scythe,  or  at  avalanches  with 
the  garden-roller.  The  man's  soul  was  a 
cabbage,  and  I  fear  that  he  regarded  us  as 
a  tiresome  kind  of  vermin  that  he  might 
not  destroy. 

Nevertheless,  as  the  Olympians  liked  to 
see  us  employed  in  the  garden,  he  could 
not  wholly  refuse  our  proffered  aid,  and  he 
would  watch  our  adventures  with  the  garden - 
hose  and  the  lawn-mower,  with  his  piratical 
features  incarnadined,  as  it  were,  by  the 
light  of  his  lurid  past.  Naturally,  water 
being  a  good  friend  of  children,  to  water 
the  garden  was  the  most  popular  task  of  all, 
and  as  I  was  the  youngest  brother  it  was 
but  rarely  that  I  was  privileged  to  experi- 
ence that  rare  delight.  To  feel  the  cool  rush 
of  the  water  through  fingers  hot  with  play 
and  the  comfortable  trickle  down  one's 
sleeve,  to  smite  a  plant  with  muddy  destruc- 
tion and  to  hear  the  cheerful  sound  made 


THE   BOY  IN  THE  GARDEN         125 

by  the  torrent  in  falling  on  to  the  soaked 
lawn— these  and  their  fellow^emotions  may 
not  be  those  of  adult  gardeners,  but  they 
are  not  to  be  despised.  But  as  I  have  said, 
they  were  not  for  me,  and  usually  I  had  to 
be  content  with  mowing  the  lawn,  an  occu- 
pation from  which  I  drew  a  full  measure 
of  placid  enjoyment. 

Age  dims  our  realisation  of  the  emotional 
significance  of  our  own  actions,  and  it  is 
only  by  an  effort  of  memory  that  I  can 
arrive  at  the  philosophy  of  the  contented 
mower  of  lawns.  I  suppose  that  profes- 
sional gardeners  find  the  labour  monotonous, 
lacking  both  the  artistic  interest  of  such 
work  as  pruning  and  the  scientific  subtleties 
of  cucumber -growing ;  but  youth  has  the 
precious  faculty  of  finding  the  extraordinary 
in  the  commonplace,  and  I  had  only  to  drag 
the  lawn-mower  from  its  rugged  bed  among 
the  forks  and  spades  in  the  tool -house,  to 
embark  on  a  sea  of  intricate  and  diverse 
adventure. 

The  very  appearance  of  the  thing  was 
cheery  and  companionable,  with  its  hands 
outstretched  to  welcome  mine,  and  its  coat 


126    THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

of  green  more  vivid  than  any  lawn.  To 
seize  hold  of  its  smooth  handles  was  like 
shaking  hands  with  an  old  friend,  and  as 
it  rattled  over  the  gravel  path  it  chattered 
to  me  in  the  gruff  tones  of  a  genial  uncle. 
Once  on  the  smooth  lawn  its  voice  thrilled 
to  song,  tremulous  and  appealing,  and  filled 
with  the  throbbing  of  great  wings.  Even 
now  I  know  no  sound  that  cries  of  the 
summer  so  poignantly  as  the  intermittent 
song  of  the  lawn-mower  heard  far  off 
through  sunny  gardens.  And  cheered  by  that 
song  I  might  drive  my  chariot,  or  it  might 
be  my  plough,  where  I  would.  Not  for  me 
the  stiff  brocaded  pattern  beloved  of  Esau  ; 
I  made  curves,  skirting  the  shadows  of  the 
tall  poplars  or  cutting  the  lawn  into  islands 
and  lagoons.  Over  the  grass -box— or  the 
nose -bag,  as  we  called  it— the  grass  danced 
like  a  mist  of  green  flies,  and  I  beheaded 
the  daisies  with  the  zest  of  a  Caligula,  paus- 
ing sometimes  to  marvel  at  those  modest 
blossoms  that  survived  my  passage.  I 
marvelled,  too,  with  the  cold  inhumanity  of 
youth,  at  the  injudicious  earthworms  that 
tried  to  stay  my  progress,  and  perished  for 


THE  BOY  IN  THE  GARDEN         127 

their  pains.  Sometimes  a  stray  pebble 
would  grate  unpleasantly  on  the  blades  and 
waken  my  lulled  senses  with  a  jerk  ;  some- 
times I  would  drive  too  close  to  a  flower- 
bed, and  munched  fragments  of  pansies  and 
wallflowers  would  glow  amongst  the  grass 
in  the  grass -box. 

No  doubt  a  part  of  my  enjoyment  lay  in 
the  feeding  of  that  natural  spirit  of  destruc- 
tiveness  that  present-day  Olympians  satisfy 
with  frequent  gifts  of  clockwork  toys, 
ingenious  mechanisms  very  proper  to  be  in- 
quired into  by  young  fingers.  But  there  was 
more  in  it  than  that.  I  liked  the  smell  of 
the  newly  cut  grass,  and  I  would  run  my 
fingers  through  it  and  press  damp,  warm 
handfuls  of  it  to  my  face  to  win  the  full 
savour  of  it.  I  even  liked  the  more  pungent 
odour  of  the  grass-heap  where  last  week's 
grass  lay  drying  in  the  sun.  And  the  effort 
necessary  to  drive  the  worker  of  wonders 
across  the  lawn  gave  me  a  pleasant  sense 
of  my  own  sturdiness. 

But  the  fact  remains  that,  with  all  these 
reasons,  I  cannot  wholly  fathom  the  true 
philosophy  of  lawn -mowing  with  my  adult 


128     THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

mind.  I  have  set  down  all  the  joys  that  I 
remember,  but  some  significant  fact,  some 
essential  note  of  enchantment,  is  missing. 
What  did  I  think  about  as  I  pressed  to  and 
fro  with  my  lawn-mower?  Sometimes,  per- 
haps, I  was  a  ploughman,  guiding  vast  horses 
along  the  crests  of  mountains,  and  paus- 
ing now  and  again  to  examine  the  treasures 
that  my  labour  had  revealed  in  the  earth, 
leather  bags  of  guineas  and  jewelled  crowns 
that  sparkled  through  their  mask  of  clay. 
Sometimes  I  might  be  a  charioteer  driving 
a  team  of  mad  horses  round  the  circus  for 
Nero's  pleasure,  or  a  fireman  driving  a  fire- 
engine  scatheless  through  bewildered  streets. 
But  with  all  I  believe  that  sometimes  I  was 
no  more  than  a  little  boy,  mowing  the  lawn 
of  a  sunny  garden,  loving  the  task  for  its 
own  sake,  and  inspired  by  no  subtler  spirit 
than  that  which  led  Esau  to  cultivate  cab- 
bages with  dogged  enthusiasm.  It  would  not 
do  to  condemn  that  dishonoured  pirate 
because  he  saw  heaven  as  a  kitchen -garden 
and  regarded  flowers  as  the  fond  toys  of 
the  Olympian  dotage.  He,  too,  had  his  illu- 
sions ;  he,  too,  while  he  sowed  the  seed  had 


THE   BOY  IN  THE  GARDEN         129 

visions  of  an  impossible  harvest.  His  ulti- 
mate fate  eludes  my  memory,  but  doubtless 
he  has  finished  with  his  husbandry  by  now. 
I,  too,  no  longer  mow  the  lawn  save  when 
arrayed  in  fantastic  knickerbockers  and 
dream-shod  as  of  yore  I  trim  the  grass-plats 
of  sleep  with  a  lawn-mower  that  sings  as 
birds  no  longer  sing.  What  the  purpose 
of  my  youthful  labours  may  have  been 
I  do  not  know.  .  .  .  Parturiunt  monies, 
nascetur  ridiculus  mus.  Perhaps  I  was 
already  enrolled  in  the  employment  agency 
of  destiny  as  a  writer  of  idle  articles. 


10 


CHILDREN    AND  THE   SEA 

THE  sea,  like  all  very  large  things,  can  only 
be  intimately  understood  by  children.  If 
we  can  conceive  a  sensible  grown-up  person 
looking  at  the  sea  for  the  first  time,  we 
feel  that  he  should  either  yawn  or  wish  to 
drown  himself.  But  a  child  would  take  a 
sample  of  it  in  a  bucket,  and  consider  that 
in  all  its  aspects  ;  and  then  it  would  know 
that  the  sea  is  a  great  many  bucketfuls  of 
water,  and  further  that  by  an  odd  freak  of 
destiny  this  water  is  not  fit  to  drink.  Storms 
and  ships  and  sand-castles  and  lighthouses 
and  all  the  other  side-shows  would  follow 
later  ;  but  in  the  meantime  the  child  would 
have  seen  the  sea  in  a  bucket,  as  it  had 
previously  seen  the  moon  in  a  looking-glass, 
so  would  know  all  about  it.  The  moon  is 
a  variable  and  interesting  kind  of  lamp  ;  the 
sea  is  buckets  and  buckets  and  buckets  full 

130 


CHILDREN  AND  THE  SEA  131 

of  water.  I  think  the  stars  are  holes  in  a 
sort  of  black  curtain  or  ceiling,  and  the 
sun  is  a  piece  of  brightness,  except  at  sunset 
or  in  a  .mist,  when  it  is  a  whole  Dutch  cheese. 
The  world  is  streets  and  fields  and  the  seaside 
and  our  house. 

I  doubt  whether  a  child  has  any  sense  of 
what  I  may  call  the  appeal  of  breadth.  If 
it  is  confronted  with  a  fine  view,  it  will  con- 
centrate its  interest  on  a  windmill  or  a  doll's 
house,  and  the  seaside  is  no  more  than  a 
place  where  one  wears  no  shoes  or  stockings, 
and  the  manufacture  of  mud  pies  becomes 
suddenly  licit.  The  child  does  not  share 
the  torments  of  the  adult  Londoner,  who  feels 
that  there  is  no  room  in  the  world  to  stretch 
his  arms  and  legs,  and  therefore  wins  a 
pathetic  sense  of  freedom  in  seeing  the  long 
yellow  sands  and  the  green  wastes  of  the 
sea.  Nor  is  it  at  all  excited  by  the  con- 
sideration that  there  is  a  lot  more  sea  beyond 
the  horizon  ;  the  extent  of  its  interest  in  the 
water  is  the  limit  to  which  it  may  paddle. 

Yet  in  some  dim,  strange  way  the  child 
realises  aesthetic  values  more  here  than  else- 
where. I  am  quite  sure  it  can  see  no  real 


132    THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

beauty  in  its  normal  surroundings.  Sunsets 
and  small  houses  lit  for  evening,  the  shining 
streets  after  rain,  and  even  flowers  and 
pictures  and  dolls,  are  never  beautiful  to 
a  child  in  the  sense  that  a  story  or  an  idea 
may  be  beautiful.  But  tacitly,  for  a  child 
has  no  language  to  express  such  things, 
something  of  the  blueness  of  the  sea  seems 
to  seek  expression  in  its  eyes,  something 
of  the  sparkle  of  the  sand  seems  to  be 
tangled  in  its  hair,  something  of  the  sunshine 
burns  in  its  rounded  calves  that  glow  like 
brown  eggs.  A  child  is  always  a  thing  of 
wonder.  But  on  the  edge  of  the  sea  this 
wonder  deepens  until  the  artificial  observer 
is  abashed.  A  seaside  child  is  no  creature 
to  be  petted  and  laughed  over  ;  it  were  as 
easy  to  pet  the  tireless  waters,  and  to  laugh 
over  the  grave  of  a  little  cat ;  children 
whom  one  has  known  very  well  indeed  in 
town  will  find  new  playing  fields  by  the 
sea  into  which  it  is  impossible  to  follow 
them.  Dorothy  weighs  five  stone  four 
pounds  at  Maida  Vale  ;  at  Littlehampton  the 
sea  wind  blows  her  along  like  a  feather ; 
she  is  become  a  wispy,  spiritual  thing,  a 


CHILDREN  AND   THE  SEA  133 

faint,  fair  creature  a-dance  on  light  feet  that 
would  make  the  fairy-girl  of  a  poet's  dream 
seem  clumsy  by  comparison.  She  is  nearer 
to  us  when  she  paddles.  The  warm  sand 
creeping  up  through  her  toes,  the  silver 
thread  of  coolness  about  her  legs,  these 
things  are  within  our  comprehension  though 
they  fall  no  more  within  our  experience. 
But  when  she  flings  herself  along  the  beach 
with  the  wild  hair  and  loose  limbs  and  the 
song  of  an  innocent  Bacchante,  when  she 
bids  the  gold  sands  heave  up  and  support  her 
body,  tired  with  play,  when  she  stoops  to 
gather  diamonds  and  pearls  from  the  shore 
made  wet  and  smooth  by  the  retreating 
waves,  she  is  as  far  from  us  and  our  human 
qualities  as  a  new-awakened  butterfly. 
There  have  been  sea-washed  moments  when 
I  should  not  have  been  astonished  if  she 
had  flung  out  a  pair  of  mother-of-pearl  wings 
and  stood  in  the  blue  sky,  like  a  child  saint 
in  a  stained-glass  window.  There  have  been 
other  moments  when  she  has  approached  me 
with  a  number  of  impossible  questions  in 
wanton  parody  of  her  simple  London  self. 
Between  these  two  extremes  her  moods  vary 


134    THE   DAY   BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

from  second  to  second,  and  she  plays  upon 
them  as  Pan  upon  his  pipes,  and  to  much 
the  same  tune.  She  loves  the  long  tresses  of 
seaweed  and  the  pink  shells  like  the  nails 
of  her  own  little  hands  ;  and  her  coloured 
pail,  when  she  is  not  the  architect  of  sea-girt 
palaces,  is  a  treasury  of  salty  wonders.  To 
climb  the  rough  rocks  and  call  them  moun- 
tains, to  drive  back  the  waves  with  a  chiding 
foot,  and  to  alter  the  face  of  Nature  with  a 
wooden  spade,  these  were  not  tasks  for  the 
domesticated  creature  who  shares  the  hearth- 
rug with  the  cat  at  home.  But  the  spirit 
of  the  sea  has  changed  Dorothy ;  she  is 
now  a  little  more  and  a  little  less  than  child  ; 
and  she  recognises  no  comrades  but  those 
other  nymphs  of  the  sea,  who  hold  the  beach 
with  the  sparkle  of  wet  feet  and  careless 
petticoats,  who  run  hither  and  thither  in 
search  of  the  big  adventure,  while  their 
parents  and  guardians  sleep  in  the  sun.  It 
is  hard  that  age  should  deprive  us  of  so 
many  privileges,  and  least  of  all  can  we 
spare  the  glamour  of  the  sands  of  the  sea. 
Yet  to  the  adult  mind  Brighton  beach, 
sprinkled  with  newspapers  and  washed  by 


CHILDREN  AND  THE  SEA  135 

a  sea  whose  surface  is  black  with  smuts, 
brings  little  but  disgust.  We  insist  on  having 
our  fairy-lands  clean  and  end,  too  often,  by 
finding  no  fairy-land  at  all.  The  sea,  after 
all,  is  no  more  than  water  that  may  be  caught 
in  a  bucket ;  the  sand  may  glitter  on  a  child's 
spade,  and  we  who  believe  that  the  essential 
knowledge  of  the  thing  is  ours  are  no  wiser 
than  the  children.  For  me  the  sea  is  a 
restless  and  immeasurable  waste  of  greens 
and  blues  and  greys,  and  I  know  that  its 
strength  lies  in  its  monotony.  It  is  not  the 
noisy  turbulence  of  storms  that  moves  me 
to  fear,  but  the  dull  precision  of  the  tides 
and  the  tireless  succession  of  waves.  And 
my  impression  is  no  truer  than  the  children's 
and  lends  itself  less  readily  to  a  sympathetic 
manner  of  living.  I  feel  that  if  I  could 
once  more  hold  the  ocean  in  my  bucket,  if 
the  whole  earth  might  be  uprooted  by  my 
spade,  I  should  be  nearer  to  a  sense  of  the 
value  of  life  than  I  am  now.  I  see  the 
children  go  trooping  by  with  their  calm  eyes, 
not,  as  is  sometimes  said,  curious,  but  rather 
tolerant  of  life,  and  I  know  that  for  them 
the  universe  is  merely  an  aggregate  of  details, 


136    THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

some  agreeable  and  some  stupid,  while  I 
must  needs  depress  myself  by  regarding  it 
as  a  whole.  And  this  is  the  proved  dis- 
tinction between  juvenile  and  adult  philoso- 
phies, if  we  may  be  permitted  to  regard  a 
child's  very  definite  point  of  view  as  the 
effect  of  a  philosophy.  Life  is  a  collection 
of  little  bits  of  experience  ;  the  seaside  bits 
are  pleasant,  and  there  is  nothing  more  to 
be  said. 


ON    GOING    TO    BED 

WHEN  the  winter  fires  were  burning  their 
merriest  in  the  grates,  or  when  the  summer 
sun  was  melting  to  crimson  shadows  down 
in  the  western  fields,  we,  pressing  our  noses 
on  the  window-panes  in  placable  discussion 
of  the  day's  cricket,  or  dreaming  our  quiet 
dreams  on  the  playroom  floor,  would  hear 
a  heart-breaking  pronouncement  fall  tone- 
lessly  from  the  lips  of  the  Olympians : 
"  Come,  children,  it  is  time  you  were  in 
bed ! "  It  needed  no  more  than  that  to 
bring  our  hearts  to  zero  with  a  run,  and 
set  our  lips  quivering  in  eloquent  but 
supremely  useless  protest.  Against  this 
decree  there  was,  we  knew,  no  appeal ;  and 
we  pleaded  our  hopeless  cause  rather  from 
habit  than  from  any  expectation  of  success. 
And  even  while  we  uttered  passionate  ex- 
pressions of  our  individual  wakefuiness,  and 

137 


138    THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

vowed  our  impatience  for  the  coming  of  that 
golden  age  when  we  should  be  allowed  to 
sit  up  all  night,  we  were  collecting  the 
honoured  toys  that  shared  our  beds,  in 
mournful  recognition  of  the  inevitable. 

It  was  not  that  we  had  any  great  objection 
to  bed  in  itself,  but  that  fate  always  decreed 
that  bed-time  should  fall  in  the  brightest 
hour  of  the  day.  No  matter  what  inter- 
necine conflicts,  whether  with  the  Olympians 
or  each  other,  had  rendered  the  day  miser- 
able, when  bed -time  drew  near  the  air  was 
sweet  with  the  spirit  of  universal  brother- 
hood, as  though  in  face  of  our  common 
danger  we  wished  to  propitiate  the  gods  by 
means  of  our  unwonted  merit.  Feuds  were 
patched  up,  confiscated  property  was  restored 
to  its  rightful  owner,  and  brother  hailed 
brother  with  a  smiling  countenance  and  that 
genial  kind  of  rudeness  that  passed  with  us 
for  politeness.  This  was  the  time  of  day,  too, 
when  the  more  interesting  kind  of  Olympian 
would  make  his  appearance,  uncles— at  least, 
we  called  them  uncles — who  could  perform 
conjuring  tricks  and  tell  exciting  stories,  and 
aunts  who  kissed  us,  but  had  a  compensating 


ON  GOING  TO   BED  139 

virtue  in  that  they  had  been  known  to  pro- 
duce unexpected  sweets.  The  house  that 
might  have  been  a  gloomy  prison  of  dull- 
ness during  the  long  day  became,  by  a 
sudden  magic,  entertaining  and  happily 
alive.  The  kitchen  was  fragrant  with  the 
interesting  odours  that  come  from  the  cook- 
ing of  strange  adult  viands  ;  the  passages 
were  full  of  strong  men  who  could  lift  small 
boys  to  the  ceiling  without  an  effort,  and 
who  would  sometimes  fling  sixpences  about 
with  prodigal  lavishness  ;  the  whole  place 
was  gay  with  parcels  to  be  opened,  and  lively, 
if  incomprehensible,  conversation.  And  ever 
while  we  were  thrilling  to  find  that  our 
normal  environment  could  prove  so  amusing, 
the  Olympians  would  realise  our  existence 
in  their  remote  eyries  of  thought,  and  would 
send  us,  stricken  with  barren  germs  of  revolt, 
to  our  uneventful  beds. 

On  me,  as  the  youngest  of  the  brothers, 
the  nightly  shock  should  have  fallen  lightly  ; 
for  I  was  but  newly  emancipated  from  the 
shameful  ordeal  of  going  to  bed  for  an  hour 
in  the  afternoon,  and  I  could  very  well 
remember,  though  I  pretended  I  had  for- 


140    THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

gotten,  the  sensations  of  that  drowsy  hour, 
when  the  birds  sang  so  loudly  outside  the 
window  and  the  sun  thrust  fingers  of  dusty 
gold  through  the  crannies  of  the  blind.  I 
should  therefore  probably  have  been  recon- 
ciled to  the  common  lot,  which  spelt  advance- 
ment to  me,  had  I  not  newly  discovered 
the  joy  of  dreaming  those  dreams  that  men 
have  written  in  books  for  the  delight  of  the 
young.  The  Olympians  were  funny  about 
books.  They  gave  them  to  us,  or  at  the 
least  smiled  graciously  when  other  people 
gave  them  to  us,  but  the  moment  rarely 
arrived  when  they  could  endure  to  see  us 
reading,  or  spoiling  our  eyes  as  their  dread- 
ful phrase  ran.  And  especially  at  nightfall, 
when  the  shadows  crept  in  from  the  corners 
of  the  room  and  made  the  pages  of  the 
dullest  book  exciting,  it  was  inviting  an  early 
bed-time  to  be  detected  in  the  act  of  reading. 
As  sure  as  the  frog  was  about  to  turn  into  a 
prince  or  the  black  enchantress  had  appeared 
with  her  embarrassing  christening  present, 
the  book  would  be  taken  from  my  hands  and 
I  would  be  threatened  with  the  compulsory 
wearing  of  old-maidish  spectacles— an  end 


ON  GOING  TO  BED  141 

that  would  make  me  an  object  of  derision 
in  the  eyes  of  man.  And  even  if  I  shut  the 
book  of  my  own  accord,  and  sat  nodding 
before  the  fire,  working  out  the  story  in  my 
own  fashion  with  some  one  I  knew  very  well 
to  play  the  part  of  hero,  some  ruthless  adult 
would  accuse  me  of  being  "  half  asleep 
already,"  and  the  veil  of  illusion  would  be 
torn  beyond  repair. 

In  winter -time  the  bedroom  would  seem 
cold  after  the  comfortable  kingdom  of  the 
hearth-rug,  and  the  smell  of  scented  soap 
was  a  poor  substitute  for  the  friendly 
fragrance  of  burning  logs.  So  we  would 
undress  as  quickly  as  possible,  and  lie 
cuddled  up  in  the  chilly  bed-clothes,  holding 
our  own  cold  feet  in  our  hands  as  if  they 
belonged  to  somebody  else.  But  if  it  hap- 
pened that  one  of  us  had  a  bad  cold,  and 
there  was  a  fire  in  the  bedroom,  we  would 
keep  high  festival,  sitting  in  solemn  palaver 
round  the  camp-fire,  and  toasting  our  pink 
toes  like  Arctic  explorers,  while  the  invalid 
lay  in  bed  crowing  over  his  black-currant 
tea  or  hot  lemonade.  It  was  pleasant,  too, 
when  natural  weariness  had  driven  us  to 


142    THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

our  beds,  to  lie  there  and  watch  the  firelight 
laughing  on  the  walls  ;  and  the  invalid,  for 
the  time  being,  was  rather  a  popular  person. 

In  summer-time  getting  into  bed  was  a 
far  more  complex  process,  for  the  youth  of 
the  night  held  us  wakeful  ;  and  if  the  weather 
were  warm,  bed  was  an  undesirable  place  as 
soon  as  we  had  exhausted  such  coolness  as 
lingered  in  the  sheets.  Then  we  would 
devote  ourselves  to  pillow-fighting,  which 
was,  I  think,  a  more  humorous  sport  for 
elder  brothers  than  for  younger,  or  we 
would  express  our  firm  intention  of  sleep- 
ing all  night  on  the  floor  under  tents 
made  of  the  bedclothes.  The  best  of  this 
resolution  was  that  it  made  bed  seem 
so  comfortable,  when  we  climbed  back  after 
the  first  fine  romance  of  camping-out  had 
worn  off.  Thunderstorms  we  loved  with  a 
love  not  untouched  by  awe,  and  we  would 
huddle  together  at  the  window,  measuring  the 
lightning,  appraising  the  thunder,  and  listen- 
ing to  the  cool  thresh  of  the  rain  on  the 
garden  below. 

There  were  rare  nights— nights  of  great 
winds— when  we  would  suddenly  realise  that 


ON  GOING  TO   BED  143 

fear  had  entered  into  the  room,  and  that, 
after  all,  we  were  children  in  a  world  of 
men.  Our  efforts  to  talk  resulted  in  tremu- 
lous whispers  that  bred  fear  rather  than 
allayed  it,  and  though  we  would  not  even 
then  admit  it,  we  knew  that  we  were  pos- 
sessed with  a  great  loneliness.  Sooner  or 
later  some  cunning  spirit  would  suggest  a 
pilgrimage  to  the  realms  of  the  Olympians, 
and  treading  the  warm  stair-carpet  with  our 
bare  feet,  we  would  journey  till  we  heard 
the  comforting  sound  of  their  laughter  and 
the  even  murmur  of  their  conversation. 
Sometimes  we  would  stay  there  till  we  grew 
sleepy,  and  the  fear  passed  away,  so  that  we 
could  tiptoe  back  to  bed,  wondering  a  little 
at  ourselves ;  sometimes  the  Olympians 
would  discover  us,  and  comfort  our  timid 
hearts  with  rough  words  and  sweet  biscuits. 
In  the  morning  we  would  pretend  that  the 
whole  business  had  been  only  an  adventure, 
and  we  were  not  above  bragging  of  our 
courage  in  daring  the  ire  of  the  grown-up 
people.  But  we  knew  better. 


STREET-ORGANS 

IT  is  very  true,  as  Mr.  Chesterton  must  have 
remarked  somewhere,  that  the  cult  of 
simplicity  is  one  of  the  most  complex 
inventions  of  civilisation.  To  eat  nuts  in 
a  meadow  when  you  can  eat  a  beefsteak  in 
a  restaurant  is  neither  simple  nor  primitive  ; 
it  is  merely  perverse,  in  the  same  way  that 
the  art  of  Gaugin  is  perverse.  A  shepherd- 
boy  piping  to  his  flock  in  Arcady  and  a 
poet  playing  the  penny  whistle  in  a  Soho 
garret  may  make  the  same  kind  of  noise  ; 
but  whereas  the  shepherd-boy  knows  no 
better,  the  poet  has  to  pretend  that  he  knows 
no  better.  So  I  reject  scornfully  the  support 
of  those  amateurs  who  profess  to  like  street- 
organs  because  they  are  the  direct  de- 
scendants of  the  itinerant  ballad-singers  of 
the  romantic  past ;  or  because  they  repre- 
sent the  simple  musical  tastes  of  the  majority 

141 


STREET  ORGANS  145 

to-day.  I  refuse  to  believe  that  in  appre- 
ciating the  sound  of  the  complex  modern 
instruments  dragged  across  London  by 
Cockneys  disguised  as  Italians  the  soul  of 
the  primitive  man  who  lurks  in  some  dim 
oubliette  of  everybody's  consciousness  is  in 
any  way  comforted.  I  should  imagine  that 
that  poor  prisoner,  if  civilisation's  cruelty 
has  not  deprived  him  of  the  faculty  of 
hearing,  is  best  pleased  by  such  barbaric 
music  as  the  howling  of  the  wind  or  the 
sound  of  railway-engines  suffering  in  the 
night ;  and  indeed  every  one  must  have 
noticed  that  sometimes  certain  sounds  un- 
musical in  themselves  can  arouse  the  same 
emotions  as  the  greatest  music. 

But  it  is  not  on  this  score  that  street-organs 
escape  our  condemnation  ;  their  music  has 
certain  defects  that  even  distance  cannot 
diminish,  and  they  invariably  give  us  the 
impression  of  a  man  speaking  through  his 
nose  in  a  high-pitched  voice,  without  ever 
pausing  to  take  breath.  If,  in  spite  of  this, 
we  have  a  kindness  for  them,  it  is  because 
of  their  association  with  the  gladdest 
moments  of  childhood.  To  the  adult  ear 

11 


146    THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

they  bring  only  desolation  and  distraction, 
but  to  the  children  the  organ -man,  with  his 
curly  black  hair  and  his  glittering  earrings, 
seems  to  be  trailing  clouds  of  glory.  For 
them  the  barrel-organ  combines  the  merits 
of  Wagner,  Beethoven,  Strauss,  and  Debussy, 
and  Orpheus  would  have  to  imitate  its 
eloquent  strains  on  his  lute  if  he  wished  to 
captivate  the  hearts  of  London  children. 

When  I  was  a  child  the  piano -organ  and 
that  terrible  variant  that  reproduces  the 
characteristic  stutter  of  the  mandoline  with 
deadly  fidelity  were  hardly  dreamed  of,  but 
the  ordinary  barrel-organ  and  the  pre- 
historic hurdy-gurdy,  whose  quavering  notes 
suggested  senile  decay,  satisfied  our  natural 
craving  for  melody.  It  is  true  that  they  did 
not  make  so  much  noise  as  the  modern 
instruments,  but  in  revenge  they  were  almost 
invariably  accompanied  by  a  monkey  in  a 
little  red  coat  or  a  performing  bear.  I 
always  had  a  secret  desire  to  turn  the  handle 
of  the  organ  myself  ;  and  when — too  late 
in  life  to  enjoy  the  full  savour  of  the  feat — 
I  persuaded  a  wandering  musician  to  let  me 
make  the  experiment,  I  was  surprised  to  find 


STREET  ORGANS  147 

that  it  is  not  so  easy  as  it  looks  to  turn 
the  handle  without  jerking  it,  and  that  the 
arm  of  the  amateur  is  weary  long  before  the 
repertoire  of  the  organ  is  exhausted.  It  is 
told  of  Mascagni  that  he  once  taught  an 
organ-man  how  to  play  his  notorious  Inter- 
mezzo to  the  fullest  effect ;  but  I  fancy 
that  in  professional  circles  the  story  would 
be  discredited,  for  the  arm  of  the  practised 
musician  acquires  by  force  of  habit  a 
uniform  rate  of  revolution,  and  in  endeavour- 
ing to  modify  that  rate  he  would  lose  all 
control  over  his  instrument. 

Personally,  I  do  not  like  hearing  excerpts 
from  Italian  opera  on  the  street-organs, 
because  that  is  not  the  kind  of  music  that 
children  can  dance  to,  and  it  is,  after  all, 
in  supplying  an  orchestra  for  the  ballroom 
of  the  street  that  they  best  justify  their 
existence.  The  spectacle  of  little  ragged 
children  dancing  to  the  music  of  the  organ 
is  the  prettiest  and  merriest  and  saddest  thing 
in  the  world.  In  France  and  Belgium  they 
waltz ;  in  England  they  have  invented  a 
curious  compound  of  the  reel,  the  gavotte, 
and  the  Cakewalk.  The  best  dancers  in 


148    THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

London  are  always  little  Jewesses,  and  it 
is  worth  anybody's  while  to  go  to  White- 
chapel  at  midday  to  see  Miriam  dancing  on 
the  cobbles  of  Stoney  Lane.  There  is  not, 
as  I  once  thought,  a  thwarted  enchanter  shut 
up  inside  street-organs  who  cries  out  when 
the  handle  turns  in  the  small  of  his  back. 
But  why  is  it  that  I  feel  instinctively  that 
magicians  have  drooping  moustaches  and 
insinuating  smiles,  if  it  is  not  that  my 
mind  as  a  child  founded  its  conception  of 
magicians  on  itinerant  musicians?  And 
they  weave  powerful  spells,  strong  enough 
to  make  these  poor  little  atomies  forget  their 
birthright  of  want  and  foot  it  like  princesses. 
Children  approach  their  amusements  with  a 
gravity  beside  which  the  work  of  a  man's 
life  seems  deplorably  flippant.  A  baby 
toddling  round  a  bandstand  is  a  far  more 
impressive  sight  than  a  grown  man  circum- 
navigating the  world,  and  children  do  not 
smile  when  they  dance — all  the  laughter 
is  in  their  feet. 

When  from  time  to  time  "  brain -workers  " 
write  to  the  newspapers  to  suggest  that 
street  musicians  should  be  suppressed  I  feel 


STREET  ORGANS  149 

that  the  hour  has  almost  come  to  start  a 
movement  in  favour  of  Votes  for  Children. 
It  is  disgraceful,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  that 
this  important  section  of  the  community,  on 
whom  the  whole  future  of  the  nation 
depends,  should  have  no  voice  in  the  form- 
ing of  the  nation's  laws  !  This  question  of 
street-organs  cannot  be  solved  by  banishing 
them  to  the  slums  without  depriving  many 
children  of  a  legitimate  pleasure.  For,  sub 
rosa,  the  children  of  Park  Lane — if  there 
are  any  children  in  Park  Lane — and  even 
the  children  of  "  brain-workers,"  appreciate 
the  music  of  street  organs  quite  as  much  as 
their  humble  contemporaries.  While  father 
buries  his  head  under  the  sofa-cushions  and 
composes  furious  letters  to  the  Times  in  that 
stuffy  hermitage,  little  noses  are  pressed 
against  the  window-pane,  little  hands 
applaud,  and  little  feet  beat  time  on  the 
nursery  floor  upstairs.  This  is  one  of  those 
situations  where  it  is  permissible  to  sym- 
pathise with  all  parties,  and  unless  father 
can  achieve  an  almost  inhuman  spirit  of 
tolerance  I  see  no  satisfactory  solution. 
For  children  must  have  music  ;  they  must 


150    THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

have  tunes  to  think  to  and  laugh  to  and  live 
to.  Funeral  marches  to  the  grave  are  all 
very  well  for  the  elderly  and  disillusioned, 
but  youth  must  tread  a  more  lively  measure. 
And  this  music  should  come  like  the  sun- 
shine in  winter,  surprisingly,  at  no  fixed 
hour,  as  though  it  were  a  natural  conse- 
quence of  life.  One  of  the  gladdest  things 
about  the  organ-man  in  our  childhood  was 
the  unexpectedness  of  his  coming.  Life 
would  be  dragging  a  little  in  schoolroom 
circles,  when  suddenly  we  would  hear  the 
organ  clearing  its  throat  as  it  were ;  we 
would  all  run  to  the  window  to  wave  our 
hands  to  the  smiling  musician,  and  shout 
affectionate  messages  to  his  intelligent 
monkey,  who  caught  our  pennies  in  his 
little  pointed  cap.  In  those  days  we  had 
all  made  up  our  minds  that  when  we  grew 
up  we  would  have  an  organ  and  a  monkey 
of  our  own.  I  think  it  is  rather  a  pity  that 
with  age  we  forget  these  lofty  resolutions 
of  our  childhood.  I  have  formed  a  concep- 
tion of  the  ideal  street-organist  that  would 
only  be  fulfilled  by  some  one  who  had 
realised  the  romance  of  that  calling  in  their 
youth. 


STREET  ORGANS  151 

How  often,  when  the  children  have  been 
happiest  and  the  dance  has  been  at  its  gayest, 
I  have  seen  the  organ-man  fold  music's  wings 
and  move  on  to  another  pitch  in  search  of 
pennies  !  I  should  like  to  think  that  it  is 
a  revolt  against  this  degraded  commercialism 
that  inspires  the  protests  of  the  critics  of 
street  music.  The  itinerant  musician  who 
believed  in  art  for  art's  sake  would  never 
move  on  so  long  as  he  had  an  appreciative 
audience ;  and  sometimes,  though  I  am 
afraid  this  would  be  the  last  straw  to  the 
"  brain-workers,"  he  would  arrive  at  two 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  the  children, 
roused  from  their  sleep,  would  hear  Pan 
piping  to  his  moonlit  flocks,  and  would 
believe  that  they  were  still  in  the  pleasant 
country  of  dreams. 


Now  that  the  Houndsditch  affair  has  been 
laid  aside  by  the  man  in  the  street  and  it 
is  once  more  possible  for  a  bearded  English- 
man to  tread  the  pavements  of  London 
without  reproach,  I  may  perhaps  venture  to 
give  some  account  of  a  secret  society  with 
which  I  have  been  intimately  connected, 
without  earning  the  reputation  of  a  monger 
of  sensations. 

Some  four  or  five  years  ago  I  met  a 
picturesque  journalist  who  told  me  that  he 
had  once  been  at  pains  to  worm  out  the 
secrets  of  an  anarchist  society  in  London, 
and  had  incorporated  his  discoveries  in  a 
volume  so  marvellous  that  no  editor  or  pub- 
lisher would  believe  it.  I  only  remember 
one  incident  of  all  his  wonderful  adventures. 
He  was  led  by  an  anarchist  comrade  into 
a  small  shop  in  the  Strand,  thence  into  a 


152 


A  SECRET  SOCIETY  153 

cellar,  and  thence  along  a  series  of  passages 
and  caverns  that  ultimately  brought  him  out 
in  Seven  Dials  !  Even  Mr.  Chesterton's 
detective-anarchists  in  the  "  Man  who  was 
Thursday  "  could  not  beat  this.  For  my  part 
I  shall  not  try,  but  shall  content  myself  with 
a  straightforward  narration  of  facts. 

I  should  think  it  was  about  last  July  that 
I  first  noticed  that  the  children  of  my  neigh- 
bourhood, with  whom  I  have  some  small 
acquaintance,  were  endeavouring  to  assume 
a  sinister  aspect,  and  were  wearing  a  cryptic 
button  with  a  marked  air  of  secrecy.  When 
I  came  out  for  my  morning  walk  the  front 
garden  would  be  animated  with  partially 
concealed  children  like  the  park  in  Mr. 
Kipling's  "They,"  and  though  I  have  long 
realised  that  suburban  front  gardens  do  not 
lend  themselves  to  the  higher  horticulture, 
I  felt  the  natural  embarrassment  of  the  man 
who  does  not  know  whether  he  is  expected 
to  expel  trespassers  or  welcome  bashful  visi- 
tors. In  the  circumstances  I  affected  not 
to  notice  that  the  lilac  was  murmurous  with 
ill -suppressed  laughter  and  that  the  laurels 
were  waving  tumultuously ;  but  it  was 


154    THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

hardly  reassuring  to  discover  on  my  return 
that  a  large  red  cross  and  the  letters  T.S. 
had  been  chalked  on  my  gate  by  an  unknown 
hand.  For  a  moment  I  wondered  whether 
the  children  had  been  reading  "  Sentimental 
Tommy,"  for  these  were  the  initials  and  the 
methods  of  Mr.  Barrie's  luckless  hero,  but 
the  age  and  genial  contempt  for  scholar- 
ship of  the  investing  forces  made  this 
unlikely.  On  the  fourth  day,  finding  one 
of  the  band  momentarily  separated  from  her 
comrades,  I  ventured  a  coup  d'&tat.  Point- 
ing to  the  letters  on  her  secret  button,  I 
remarked,  "  I  see  you  belong  to  the  Teapot 
Society." 

"  I  don't  !  "  she  said  indignantly  ;  "  it's  the 
Terror  Society  I  belong  to." 

The  secret  was  out,  but  I  thought  it  wiser 
to  conceal  my  triumph.  Evidently,  however, 
my  discovery  troubled  the  band,  for  next 
morning  I  received  a  soi-disant  anonymous 
letter  of  caution  signed  in  full  by  all  the 
members.  I  felt  that  the  moment  had 
arrived  for  definite  action,  especially  as  the 
cat  who  honours  my  house  with  his 
presence,  and  whose  summer  morning  bask- 


A  SECRET  SOCIETY  155 

ing-place  is  in  the  front  garden,  had  been 
much  upset  by  this  recurrent  invasion  of 
his  privacy.  I  wrote  a  humble  letter  to  the 
Society,  apologising  for  my  crimes  and  beg- 
ging that  I  might  be  allowed  to  become  a 
member,  and  placed  it  outside  on  the  path. 
Five  minutes  later  two  very  unembarrassed 
children  appeared  in  my  study,  and  intro- 
duced themselves  as  Captain  and  Secretary 
of  the  Terror  Society. 

The  Captain  was  very  frank  with  me. 

"  Of  course,  we  didn't  really  want  to 
frighten  you,"  she  said,  "but  we  had  to  get 
you  to  become  a  member  somehow  or 
other." 

"  But  I'm  afraid  I'm  not  much  good  at 
conspiracies,"  I  said  modestly. 

"  Oh,  that  doesn't  matter,"  the  Captain 
answered  kindly.  "  You  can  be  honourable 
Treasurer.  You  know  we  want  a  lot  of 
things  for  our  house." 

I  began  to  see  what  part  I  had  in  the 
scheme  of  things.  "  What  are  the  rules  of 
the  Society?"  I  asked  in  all  innocence,  and 
thereby  flung  the  Secretary  into  confusion. 

"  You  see,  she  wrote  them  out,"  the  Captain 


156    THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

explained,  "  and  she  doesn't  want  you  to 
read  them  because  of  the  spelling.  But 
they're  only  make-up  rules,  so  you  needn't 
bother  about  them.  Don't  you  want  to  see 
the  house?" 

"  Captain,"  I  said  firmly,  "  it  is  my  one 
wish.  Lead  on  !  " 

"  You  ought  really  to  be  blindfolded,"  the 
Captain  whispered  to  me  as  we  went  along, 
"but  I  used  my  handkerchief  to  wrap  up 
some  of  cook's  toffee  this  morning,  and  it's 
rather  sticky." 

"  Don't  apologise,"  I  murmured  hastily ; 
"  I  don't  mind  not  being  blindfolded  a  bit. 
Besides,  I'm  practically  a  member,  and  you 
mustn't  blindfold  members  ;  it  isn't  done." 

The  Captain  seemed  relieved.  "I  knew 
you  would  make  a  good  treasurer,"  she  said 
with  cheerful  inconsequence.  "  But,  look  ! 
there's  the  house." 

The  headquarters  or  club-house  of  the 
Terror  Society  stood  beside  the  allotment 
gardens  at  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  may, 
at  some  less  honourable  period  of  its  history, 
have  served  as  a  place  for  storing  tools. 
In  the  course  of  their  trespassings  the  chil- 


A  SECRET  SOCIETY  157 

dren   had   found   it   lying   empty,   and   had 
obtained   permission   from   the   landlord   to 
have  it  for  their  very  own.     I  have  implied 
that  the  feminine  element  was  predominant 
in  the  Society,  and,  recalling  the  wigwams 
and  log  huts  of  my  own  childhood,  the  differ- 
ence between  the   ideals  of  boys   and  girls 
was   sharply  brought  home  to   me  when   I 
crossed    the    threshold.      The    walls    were 
papered    with    sentimental    pictures    out    of 
Christmas  numbers  and  literally  draped  with 
curtains  ;  there  were  vases  filled  with  flowers 
in  every  corner,  and  in  the  middle  of  this 
boudoir  three  of  the  members  were  drink- 
ing tea.    In  a  sense,  perhaps,  the  girls  were 
to    be    commended    for    finding    the    true 
romance  in  domesticity,  but  I  could  not  help 
wondering  what  Captain  Shark  of  the  barque 
Rapacious,  that  faithful  friend  of  my  boy- 
hood,   would    have    thought    of    a    Terror 
Society  run  on  such  principles.     However, 
I   saw  that  the  eyes  of  the  members  were 
upon   me,   and   I   hastened   to   do   my  duty 
as   an  honourable  member.     "  It's  wonder- 
ful," I  said.    "  How  on  earth  did  you  manage 
to  do  it  all  yourselves?" 


158    THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

The  children  all  fell  to  apportioning  the 
credit— all,  that  is,  save  the  Captain,  who 
seemed  to  me  a  very  businesslike  fellow. 

"  You  see,  Mr.  Treasurer,"  she  said,  "  we 
want  some  more  of  those  camp-stools  and 
a  lock  to  keep  out  burglars,  and  some  knives 
and  forks,  and  a  tin  of  biscuits  and  a  pail 
and  candles  and  a  candlestick  and  a  clothes- 
brush  and  a  little  bell  to  ring  at  dinner-time 
and  a  knocker  for  the  door." 

Fortunately  she  paused  to  take  breath. 

"  My  dear  Captain,"  I  interrupted  quickly, 
I  have  a  sovereign  in  the  savings-bank,  and 
if  you  come  with  me  to-morrow  we'll  draw 
it  out,  and  do  the  best  we  can  with  the 
money.  But  tell  me,  am  I  really  a 
member?" 

"  Of  course  you  are  !  " 

"  Then  Where's   my  mysterious   button  ?  " 

The  Captain  frowned.  "Jessie  will  have 
to  paint  you  one,  but  the  ribbon  costs  a 
penny." 

"That  makes  twenty  shillings  and  a 
penny,"  said  the  Secretary.  It  was  indeed 
a  businesslike  Society. 

The  next  day  the  Captain  and  I  did  a  lot 


A  SECRET  SOCIETY  159 

of  miscellaneous  shopping,  and  two  days 
later  the  button  was  left  at  my  door  by  a 
small  boy.  Then  for  a  fortnight  I  heard 
nothing  of  the  Society  or  its  members,  and 
no  sinister  invasion  of  the  morning  occurred 
to  disturb  the  far  peace  in  the  eyes  of 
my  cat.  At  last  I  met  the  Captain  in  the 
road,  and  though  she  endeavoured  to  elude 
me,  I  succeeded  in  getting  her  into  a 
corner. 

"  Well,  Captain,"  I  said,  "  how's  the  Terror 
Society?" 

The  Captain  looked  gloomy.  "  Haven't 
you  heard?  "  she  said.  "  The  Terror  Society 
is  all  over." 

"  Finished  already  !  "  I  cried  in  astonish- 
ment. "  Why,  what  have  you  done  with  the 
house?" 

"  It  has  been  given  to  another  society," 
she  said  without  a  blush. 

"Another  society?" 

"Yes,  the  Horror  Society.    I  am  Captain." 

I  considered  this  news  for  a  moment. 
"  Well,  I  suppose  I'm  a  member  of  the  new 
society?"  I  ventured. 

The  Captain  shook  her  head  sadly.     "  I'm 


160    THE   DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

so   sorry,"   she  said,   "but  the  H.  S.   has   a 
rule  that  no  grown-ups  are  admitted  ! " 

That  is  why,  though  I  myself  was  a 
member  of  the  Terror  Society,  I  yet  feel 
myself  at  liberty  to  write  about  it.  For  as 
on  inquiry  I  discovered  that  the  ranks  of 
the  Horror  Society  differed  in  no  wise  from 
those  of  the  Terror  Society  save  for  the 
exclusion  of  the  honourable  Treasurer,  I 
cannot  help  feeling  that  I  have  been  rather 
badly  treated. 


THE    PRICE    OF    PEACE 

I  CANNOT  remember  how  old  I  was  when 
I  wrote  the  thrilling  poem  about  the  tiger 
who  swallowed  the  horse,  nor  am  I  quite 
certain  that  it  was  my  first  literary  effort, 
but  I  know  that  I  was  still  at  the  tight 
knickerbocker  stage,  and  that  my  previous 
poems,  if  there  had  been  any,  had  remained 
secrets  of  my  own.  It  was  due  to  a 
cousin  that  my  conspiracy  against  the  world 
of  common  sense  was  finally  discovered. 
Woman-like,  she  tickled  my  ears  with  flat- 
tery, and  persuaded  me  to  let  her  read  the 
precious  document ;  and  then,  as  soon  as 
she  had  it  in  her  hand,  she  fled  to  the 
camp  of  the  Olympians,  leaving  me  alone  in 
the  little  dark  room  to  reflect  on  the  guiles 
of  the  sex.  With  straining  ears  I  waited  for 
the  distant  chorus  of  mocking  laughter  that 
would  announce  my  failure,  while  my  body 

12  161 


162    THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

tingled  all  over  with  shame.  Yet  beneath  my 
fear  I  was  conscious  that  I  had  not  been 
wholly  unwilling  to  be  betrayed.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  if  I  proved  to  be  a  great  poet, 
my  future  traffic  with  the  Olympians  might 
be  of  a  more  agreeable  character  than  it  had 
been  previously.  On  the  other  hand,  I  felt 
that  life  would  be  impossible  if  they  greeted 
my  poem  with  scorn.  Conceived  and  per- 
fected in  solitude,  it  had  become  an  inti- 
mate part  of  myself,  and  I  turned  dark 
thoughts  to  the  purple  berries  that  grew  in 
the  shrubbery,  and  provided  us  with  wholly 
innocuous  poison  for  our  arrows.  Even 
then,  it  would  seem,  I  had  an  instinctive 
knowledge  of  the  tragedy  of  failing  as  a  poet. 
And  then,  while  I  yet  waited  in  suspense, 
I  heard  the  sound  of  footsteps  and  knew 
that  my  cousin  was  returning.  In  a  flash  I 
realised  how  stupid  I  had  been  to  remain 
in  the  room,  when  I  might  have  hidden 
myself  in  some  far  corner  of  the  attic  and 
appeared  no  more  until  my  shame  had  been 
forgotten.  My  legs  trembled  in  sudden 
panic,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  my  face 
was  ticking  like  a  clock.  I  received  my  first 


THE  PRICE   OF  PEACE  163 

critic  with  my  head  buried  in  the  cushions 
of  the  sofa. 

Looking  back,  I  perceive  that  the  Olym- 
pians rose  to  the  occasion,  but  at  the  time 
I  could  hardly  believe  my  good -fortune. 
Long  after  my  cousin  had  gone  away  I  lay 
on  the  sofa  turning  over  the  pleasant 
message  in  my  mind— and  the  magic  half- 
crown  in  my  hand.  Praise  I  had  desired, 
if  not  expected  ;  but  that  the  Olympians— 
whose  function  in  life  was  to  divert  our  tips 
into  a  savings-bank  account  that  meant 
nothing  to  us,  that  these  stern  financiers 
should  give  me  a  whole  half-crown  in  one 
sum,  unhindered  by  any  restrictions  in  the 
spending,  was  incredible.  Yet  I  could  feel 
its  rough  edge  in  the  dark  ;  and  considering 
its  source,  I  formed  an  erroneous  idea  of  the 
influence  of  the  arts  on  the  minds  of  sane 
grown-up  people,  from  which  even  now  I 
am  not  wholly  delivered. 

After  a  while,  with  a  mind  strangely  con- 
fused between  pride  and  modesty,  I  stole 
into  the  room  where  the  others  were  sit- 
ting. But  with  a  quick  sense  of  disappoint- 
ment I  saw  that  I  need  not  have  concerned 


164    THE   DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

myself  at  all  with  the  proper  attitude  for 
a  young  poet  to  adopt.  The  Olympians, 
engaged  in  one  of  their  meaningless  dis- 
cussions, did  not  notice  my  entrance,  and 
only  my  brothers  were  interested  when  I 
crept  silently  into  their  midst. 

"What  are  you  going  to  spend  it  on?" 
they  whispered. 

Oddly,  for  I  was  the  youngest  of  four, 
this  success  of  mine  was  responsible  for  a 
literary  outburst  in  our  normally  uncultured 
schoolroom,  and  one  of  the  fruits  of  that 
intellectual  disturbance,  in  the  shape  of  a 
manuscript  magazine,  lies  before  me.  It 
contains  an  editorial  address  to  the  "  friendly 
reader,"  two  short  stories  full  of  murders, 
a  quantity  of  didactic  verse,  and  the  first 
instalment  of  a  serial,  which  commences 
gravely :  "  My  father  was  a  bootmaker  of 
considerable  richness."  Of  literary  achieve- 
ment or  even  promise  it  would  be  hard  to 
find  a  trace  in  these  yellowing  pages,  but 
there  is  an  enthusiasm  behind  every  line  of 
them  that  the  critic  would  seek  in  vain  in 
modern  journalism.  Indeed,  those  were  the 
days  in  which  to  write,  when  paper  and 


THE   PRICE   OF  PEACE  165 

pencil  and  half  an  hour  never  failed  to  pro- 
duce a  masterpiece,  and  the  finished  work 
invariably  thrilled  the  artist  with  "  out- 
landish pride."  I  cannot  recall  that  any 
further  half-crowns  rewarded  our  efforts, 
and  possibly  that  is  the  reason  why  three 
of  the  four  boys  who  wrote  that  magazine 
are  now  regenerate  and  write  no  more. 

And  even  the  fourth  must  own  to  having 
lost  that  fine,  careless  trick  of  throwing  off 
masterpieces,  and  to  regretting,  in  moments 
of  depression,  the  generous  Olympian  im- 
pulse that  enabled  him  to  barter  his  birth- 
right of  common  sense  for  a  silver  coin  with 
a  rough  edge.  And  the  Olympians— they,  too, 
have  regretted  it,  I  suppose,  for  the  goddess 
of  letters  is  an  exacting  mistress,  and  we 
do  not  willingly  see  our  children  engaging 
in  her  irregular  service.  Yet  I  do  not  see 
what  else  they  could  have  done  at  the  time. 

A  little  while  ago  I  discovered  a  small 
girl,  to  whom  I  act  as  a  kind  of  illegal  uncle, 
in  the  throes  of  lyrical  composition.  With 
soft  words  and  flattering  phrases,  borrowed, 
perhaps,  from  the  cousin  of  the  past,  I  won 
the  paper  from  her  grasp.  It  was  like  all 


166    THE   DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

the  poetry  that  children  have  ever  written, 
and  I  was  preparing  to  banter  the  young 
author  when  I  saw  that  she  was  regarding 
me  with  curious  intentness,  and  that  her 
face  turned  red  and  white  by  turns.  Even 
if  my  intentions  had  been  honourable  I 
could  not  have  disregarded  her  signs  of  dis- 
tress. "  I  think  it's  very  nice  indeed,"  I 
said  ;  "  I'll  give  you  half  a  crown  for  it." 
As  her  fingers  closed  on  the  coin  I  felt 
inclined  to  raise  a  shout  of  triumph.  For 
now  that  I  had  paid  the  half-crown  back  I 
should  be  able  gradually— for,  of  course,  the 
habit  of  years  is  not  broken  in  a  minute- 
to  stop  writing.  My  only  fear  is  that  my 
conscience  may  have  gone  to  sleep  in  my 
long  years  of  aloofness  from  simplicity  ;  for 
though  I  already  detect  a  note  of  vagueness 
in  the  eyes  of  my  niece,  and  her  mother 
complains  that  she  is  becoming  untidy,  I 
hold  my  peace,  and  offer  no  explanation. 
For  I  feel  sure  that  if  I  did  I  should  recover 
my  half-crown. 


ON   CHILDREN'S  GARDENS 

IN  the  well-ordered  garden  of  every  well- 
ordered  house — that  is,  every  house  that 
numbers  children  in  its  treasury — there  lies, 
screened  perhaps  by  some  inconvenient 
shrubbery  but  none  the  less  patent  to 
the  stars  and  the  winds  and  the  polite  visitor, 
a  tormented  patch  of  earth  where  sway  in 
dubious  security  of  tenure  a  number  of  sickly 
plants.  For  days  they  have  lain  parched 
and  neglected  in  the  summer  sun  ;  for  days 
they  have  been  beaten  down  into  a  morass 
by  torrents  poured  from  an  excited  watering- 
pot  ;  their  roots  have  regarded  heaven  for 
no  less  a  period  than  their  heads  ;  and  in 
the  face  of  such  unnatural  conditions  Ceres, 
one  fancies,  must  have  fallen  back  in  con- 
fusion and  left  them  to  struggle  on  as  best 
they  can  unaided.  It  is  only  the  most  hardy 

167 


168    THE  DAY   BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

of  plants  that  may  survive  the  attentions  of 
a  youthful  gardener,  and  it  is  a  tribute  to 
Nature's  obstinacy  that  any  survive  at  all. 
I  have  in  my  mind  a  garden  of  this  kind,  and 
thereby  hangs  one  of  those  rather  tragic 
stories  which  grown-up  people  are  apt  to 
consider  funny.  The  garden  lay  below  an 
old  brick  wall,  which  must,  I  think,  have 
faced  south,  for,  as  I  remember  it,  it  was 
always  lit  by  the  sun.  It  was  the  property 
of  three  children,  and  their  separate  estates 
were  carefully  marked  off  by  decorative  walls 
of  shells  and  freakish  pebbles.  Here,  early 
and  late,  two  of  the  children  waged  a  gallant 
war  against  Nature,  thwarting  and  checking 
her  with  a  hundred  delicate  attentions  ;  but 
on  the  third  had  fallen  that  pleasant  mood 
when  it  is  nicer  to  lie  in  the  shade  and  to 
dream  of  wine  than  to  labour  in  the  vine- 
yard. His  garden  was  a  tangle  of  weeds 
and  of  healthy,  neglected  plants,  and  when 
the  inevitable  awakening  came  he  saw  that 
it  would  require  days  of  unprofitable  work 
to  turn  the  wilderness  into  a  proper  garden. 
Yet  to  hear  the  uninformed  comparisons  of 
visitors  was  a  shameful  ordeal  not  to  be 


ON  CHILDREN'S  GARDENS          169 

borne.  He  solved  the  problem,  I  still  think, 
in  a  very  spirited  manner.  He  cleared  the 
garden  by  the  simple  process  of  removing 
plants  and  weeds  alike,  and  sowed  the  ground 
with  seeds,  purchased  alas  !  with  a  shilling 
extracted  quite  illegally  from  his  money-box. 
But  the  secrecy  of  these  movements  had  not 
escaped  the  notice  of  the  Olympians,  and 
later  there  fell  on  his  horrified  ears  an 
entirely  new  and  obviously  truthful  theory 
of  botany  ;  it  seemed  that  the  word  "  thief  " 
could  be  plainly  deciphered  on  the  flowers 
of  dishonest  gardeners.  There  were  no 
blossoms  in  that  little  boy's  garden  that  year. 
Like  the  monk  in  Browning's  poem,  he 
pinched  off  all  the  buds  before  the  sun 
was  up. 

They  were  simple  flowers  we  sought  to 
cultivate  in  those  days,  simple  flowers  with 
beautiful  names.  Violets  and  snowdrops, 
the  reticent  but  cheerful  pansy,  otherwise 
known  as  "  three  faces  under  a  hood,"  love- 
lies-bleeding,  wallflowers,  stocks,  and  London 
pride,  or  "  none  so  pretty  "  ;  of  these  and  their 
unaffected  comrades  we  made  our  gardens. 
Spades  and  pickaxes  were  denied  us,  but  the 


simple  gardening  tools  were  ours,  and  he 
has  lived  in  darkness  who  has  not  experi- 
enced the  keen  joy  of  smacking  the  earth 
with  the  convex  side  of  a  trowel.  My  hands 
tingle  when  I  remember  how  sore  weeding 
made  the  finger-tips,  and  there  is  something 
in  the  last  ecstatic  chuckle  of  a  watering- 
pot  as  it  runs  dry  that  lingers  in  the  ear. 
I  am  aware  that  there  are  persons  of  mature 
years  who  can  find  pleasure  in  the  perform- 
ance of  simple  garden  tasks.  But  I  am  afraid 
that  subconsciously  it  is  the  aesthetic  aspect 
of  flowers  that  attracts  them,  and  that 
their  gardening  is  only  a  means  to  an  end. 
No  such  charge  could  be  brought  against  our 
efforts.  We  cared  little  about  flowers  or 
results  of  any  sort ;  we  only  wanted  to 
garden,  and  it  troubled  us  not  at  all  that 
the  labours  of  one  day  destroyed  those  of 
the  day  before.  To  dig  a  deep  hole  and 
to  fill  it  with  water  when  completed  is,  as 
far  as  I  have  observed,  no  part  of  the 
ordinary  gardener's  daily  work,  but  it  was 
our  favourite  effort,  and  a  share  in  the  con- 
struction of  these  ornamental  waters  was  the 
greatest  favour  that  we  could  grant  to  a 


ON  CHILDREN'S  GARDENS  171 

friend.  There  were  always  captivating 
insects  with  numerous  and  casual  legs  to 
be  discovered  in  the  digging,  and  great  stones 
that  parted  from  the  earth  as  reluctantly 
as  nuggets.  And  when  we  had  hollowed  a 
cup  in  the  earth  we  would  pour  in  the  sea 
and  set  our  hearts  floating  upon  its  surface 
in  paper  ships.  The  sides  of  the  hole  would 
crumble  down  into  the  water  like  real  cliffs, 
and  every  little  fall  would  send  a  real  wave 
sparkling  across  the  surface  of  the  ocean. 
Then  there  were  bays  to  be  cut  and  canals, 
and  soundings  to  be  taken  with  pieces  of 
knotted  string  weighted  with  stones.  Water 
has  been  the  friend  of  children  ever  since 
Moses  floated  in  his  little  ark  of  rushes  to 
the  feet  of  Pharaoh's  daughter. 

I  question  whether  they  know  very  much 
about  this  sort  of  gardening  at  Kew,  a  place 
which  is,  however,  beloved  of  children  for 
the  sake  of  the  excellent  spiral  staircases 
in  the  palm-houses.  But  every  sensible  child 
has  the  art  at  its  finger-tips,  and  in  the  time 
that  we  take  to  reach  Brighton  in  a  fleet 
motor  they  will  construct  a  brand  new  sea 
for  themselves — a  sea  with  harbours  and 


172    THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

islands  and  sunken  reefs,  a  perfect  sea  of 
wonder  and  romance. 

If  we  are  prepared  to  set  aside  our  pre- 
conceived ideas  as  to  what  a  garden  ought 
to  be,  we  must  own  that  the  children  are 
not  far  wrong  after  all.  A  garden  is  only 
a  world  in  miniature,  with  prairies  of  flowers 
and  forests  of  roses  and  gravel  paths  for 
the  wide,  dusty  roads.  When  we  plant 
flowers  in  our  garden  it  is  as  though  we 
added  new  territories  to  our  empire,  new 
reds  and  blues  and  purples  to  our  treasury 
of  colours.  And  so  when  a  child  has  Wrought 
a  fine  morning's  havoc  in  its  little  patch  of 
ground  it  has  added  it  may  be  an  ocean,  it 
may  be  only  a  couple  of  stars  to  the  king- 
dom of  imagination  which  we  may  no  longer 
see.  It  only  needs  a  sunny  hour  or  two,  a 
trowel,  and  a  pair  of  dirty  hands  to  change 
a  few  square  yards  of  earth  into  a 
world.  And  the  child  may  be  considered 
fortunate  in  being  able  to  express  itself 
perfectly  in  terms  of  dust.  Our  books  and 
pictures  cumber  the  earth,  our  palaces  strike 
the  skies,  and  yet  it  is  our  common  tragedy 
that  we  have  not  found  expression  ;  while 


ON  CHILDREN'S  GARDENS  173 

down  the  garden  behind  the  lilac-bushes  at 
this  very  moment  Milton  may  have  developed 
Lycidas  into  a  sticky  marsh,  and  Shakespeare 
may  have  compressed  Hamlet  into  a  mud- 
pie.  The  works  of  the  children  end  as  they 
begin  in  dust ;  but  we  cannot  pretend  that 
ours  are  more  permanent. 


A   DISTINGUISHED   GUEST 

I  AM  willing  to  acknowledge  that  until  lately, 
when  I  was  privileged  to  entertain  a  cat 
under  my  roof  for  a  fortnight,  my  know- 
ledge of  these  noble  beings  was  only 
academic.  I  had  read  what  the  poets  have 
to  say  about  them — Wordsworth  and  Swin- 
burne, Cowper  and  Gray  ;  I  knew  that  "  cat " 
was  the  only  word  in  the  English  language 
that  had  a  vocative,  "  puss  "  ;  I  knew  that 
Southey  mourned  that  his  kitten  should  ever 
attain  to  cathood,  that  the  Egyptians  were 
very  fond  of  cats  and  that  Lord  Roberts 
is  not.  Then  I  had  seen  cats  in  the  street, 
and  admired  the  spirit  with  which  a  home- 
less cat  with  no  visible  means  of  subsistence 
would  put  shame  into  the  heart  of  a  well- 
fed  terrier.  Lying  awake  by  night  I  had 
heard  their  barbaric  song  ringing  like  a 
challenge  in  the  ears  of  civilisation,  and  had 


174 


A  DISTINGUISHED   GUEST  175 

wondered  whether  some  unknown  Strauss 
might  not  revolutionise  the  music  of  the 
future  by  aid  of  their  passionate  harmonies. 
But  I  had  never  moved  in  their  society,  and 
therefore  I  would  not  understand  them.  In 
those  days  I  should  probably  have  thought 
that  the  recent  message  of  the  Postmaster- 
General  to  the  Press,  to  the  effect  that  cats 
of  the  old  General  Post  Office  had  been  found 
comfortable  homes,  was  trivial.  And  I  re- 
member with  shame  that  I  watched  the 
malevolent  antics  of  the  caricature  of  a  cat 
that  appears  in  the  "  Blue  Bird "  without 
indignation. 

I  do  not  propose  to  give  the  events  of  the 
fortnight  in  detail,  but  rather  to  summarise 
them  for  the  benefit  of  others  who,  like 
myself,  may  be  called  upon  unexpectedly  to 
entertain  a  feline  guest.  The  name  of  my 
visitor  was  Kim,  though  I  am  told  that  most 
cats  are  called  William  Pitt,  after  the  states- 
man. He  was  a  short-haired  tabby  cat,  some 
eighteen  months  old,  and  a  fine,  large  fellow 
for  his  age.  While  he  was  with  me  he 
usually  wore  a  white  waistcoat,  and  there 
was  a  white  mark  on  his  face,  as  if  some 


176    THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

milk  had  been  spilled  there  when  he  was 
a  kitten.  His  eyes  were  very  large  and  of 
the  colour  of  stage  sunlight,  and  they  haunted 
me  from  the  moment  when  I  raised  the  lid 
of  the  hamper  in  which  he  arrived.  They 
were  always  significant  and  always  inscru- 
table, but  I  could  not  help  staring  into  them 
in  the  hope  of  discovering  their  meaning. 
I  think  he  knew  they  fascinated  me,  for  he 
would  keep  them  wide  open  and  full  of 
secrets  for  hours  at  a  time. 

I  had  been  informed  that  his  name  was 
Kim  because  he  was  the  little  friend  of  all 
the  world,  but  at  the  first  I  found  him 
reticent  and  of  an  independent  disposition. 
I  had  always  believed  that  cats  purred  when 
you  stroked  them,  but  when  I  stroked  him 
he  would  endure  it  in  silence  for  a  minute 
and  then  retire  to  a  corner  of  the  room 
and  make  an  elaborate  and,  under  the 
circumstances,  uncomplimentary  toilet.  In 
my  inexperience  I  was  afraid  that  he  had 
taken  a  dislike  to  me,  but  one  evening,  after 
he  had  been  with  me  three  days,  he  climbed 
into  my  lap  and  went  to  sleep.  My  pipe 
was  on  the  mantelpiece,  and  as  Kim  weighed 


A  DISTINGUISHED  GUEST  177 

over  twelve  pounds  my  legs  grew  very 
cramped  ;  but  I  knew  better  than  to  disturb 
him,  and  he  slept  very  comfortably  till  two 
in  the  morning.  He  repeated  this  compli- 
ment on  several  occasions,  but  when  I  lifted 
him  into  my  lap  he  always  got  off  imme- 
diately, and  made  me  feel  that  I  had  been 
ill-treating  him.  His  choice  of  sleeping- 
places  was  strange.  If  I  was  reading,  he 
waited  till  I  laid  the  book  down  on  the  table 
and  then  fell  asleep  on  top  of  it.  When  I 
was  writing  and  he  had  grown  weary  of 
turning  his  head  from  side  to  side  to  follow 
the  birdlike  flight  of  the  pen  to  the  ink- 
pot, he  loved  to  settle  himself  down  on  the 
wet  manuscript  and  blink  drowsily  at  my 
embarrassment.  Once  when  I  ventured  to 
lift  him  off  he  sulked  under  the  table  all 
the  afternoon,  and  I  did  not  repeat  the 
experiment.  He  seemed  to  be  a  very  sensi- 
tive cat. 

Of  course  he  was  too  old  to  play  with  me, 
but  he  had  famous  games  by  himself  with 
corks  and  pieces  of  paper.  Sooner  or  later 
he  would  drive  these  under  one  of  the  book- 
cases, and  would  sit  down  and  mew  plain- 

13 


178    THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

tively  until  I  went  and  raked  them  out  for 
him.  Then  he  would  get  up  and  walk  away 
as  if  such  toys  were  beneath  his  dignity. 
The  one  fault  I  found  in  his  character  was 
this  constant  emphasis  of  an  inferiority  that 
I  was  quite  willing  to  confess.  A  generous 
cat  would  have  realised  that  I  was  trying 
to  do  my  best,  and  would  have  pardoned 
my  hundred  errors  of  judgment.  Kim  never 
wearied  of  putting  me  in  my  place,  and 
turned  a  scornful  tail  to  my  heartfelt 
apologies.  When  he  was  dozing  in  the 
evening  on  the  hearthrug  he  was  very  angry 
if  any  one  put  coals  on  the  fire,  even  though 
he  had  been  warned  beforehand  of  what  was 
about  to  happen.  He  would  look  at  me  with 
an  air  of  noble  reproach  and  stalk  away  to 
the  window,  where,  perched  on  the  back  of 
a  window-seat,  he  would  stay  for  hours, 
patiently  observant  of  the  sounds  and  smells 
of  the  night. 

But  it  was  at  mealtimes  that  he  made  me 
realise  most  the  strength  of  his  individuality. 
I  had  imagined  that  all  cats  were  fond  of 
milk,  but  Kim  quickly  disillusioned  me,  and 
it  was  as  the  result  of  a  series  of  experiments 


A  DISTINGUISHED   GUEST  179 

that  I  discovered  that  he  would  only  drink 
new  milk  raised  to  a  certain  temperature, 
and  not  then  if  he  thought  I  was  watching 
him.  For  the  first  twenty-four  hours  after 
he  arrived  he  would  eat  nothing,  though  I 
tried  to  tempt  him  with  chicken,  sardines, 
and  fillet  of  sole.  Once  or  twice  he  gave  a 
little  plaintive  mew,  but  for  the  most  part 
he  succeeded  in  giving  me  the  impression  of 
a  brave  heart  enduring  the  pangs  of  a  con- 
suming hunger  with  noble  fortitude.  At  the 
end  of  that  period,  when  he  had  reduced  me 
to  despair,  he  relieved  himself  and  me  by 
stealing  a  haddock.  After  that  the  task  of 
feeding  him  was  comparatively  easy.  I 
would  prepare  him  a  dinner  and  pretend 
to  eat  it  myself  with  great  enjoyment ;  then 
I  would  leave  the  room  as  if  I  had  suddenly 
remembered  an  appointment.  When  I  re- 
turned the  plate  would  be  empty— that  is, 
as  empty  as  a  cat's  dignity  will  allow  him 
to  leave  a  plate,  and  a  few  delicate  impres- 
sions of  Kim's  paws  on  the  tablecloth  would 
tell  me  that  all  was  well.  The  irritating 
motive  that  underlay  this  graceless  manner- 
ism was  clear  to  me.  He  would  not  be 


180    THE   DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

beholden  to  me  for  so  much  as  a  sardine, 
and  he  was  willing  to  steal  all  his  meals  so 
long  as  he  could  remain  independent.  I 
think,  too,  that  it  amused  him  to  undermine 
my  moral  character  by  making  me  deceitful. 

Incidentally,  a  cookery-book  for  cats  is 
badly  needed.  Unlike  dogs,  they  are  gourmets 
rather  than  gourmands,  and  their  appetites 
seem  to  languish  if  they  do  not  have  a  con- 
tinual change  of  fare.  They  have  subtle 
palates  ;  Kim  liked  gorgonzola  cheese  and 
curried  rabbit,  but  he  would  not  eat  chicken 
in  any  form.  I  found  anchovy  sauce  very 
useful  to  make  a  meal  savoury  that  Kim 
had  not  thought  palatable  enough  to  steal, 
and  the  wise  host  will  hold  this  condiment 
in  reserve  for  such  occasions.  There  is  no 
relying  on  their  likes  or  dislikes  ;  they  will 
eat  something  with  avidity  one  day  and  reject 
it  with  infinite  distaste  the  next. 

On  the  whole  it  was  a  busy  fortnight,  and 
it  was  not  without  a  certain  relief  that  I 
said  farewell  to  my  emotional  guest  and  sent 
him  back  to  his  owner.  Designedly,  as  I 
believe,  he  had  succeeded  in  making  me  pain- 
fully self-conscious,  so  that  I  could  not  do 


A  DISTINGUISHED  GUEST          181 

anything  without  being  led  to  feel  that  in 
some  way  I  was  sinning  against  the  laws 
of  hospitality.  It  was  pleasant  to  realise 
that  my  life  was  once  more  my  own,  and 
that  I  was  free  from  the  critical  inspection 
of  those  significant,  inscrutable  eyes.  I  have 
commented  on  the  independence  of  his 
character  ;  it  would  be  unjust  if  I  failed  to 
mention  the  one  exception.  One  night  I  was 
awakened  by  a  soft  paw,  a  paw  innocent  of 
all  claws,  patting  me  gently  on  the  cheek, 
and  in  the  dark  I  was  aware  of  Kim  sitting 
on  my  pillow.  I  supposed  that  he  was  lonely 
and  put  up  my  hand  to  stroke  him.  Then 
for  once  in  a  way  the  proudest  of  sentient 
beings  was  pleased  to  drop  the  mask  of  his 
pride  and  purr  loudly  and  without  restraint. 
In  the  morning  he  treated  me  with  exagge- 
rated coldness,  but  I  was  not  cheated  into 
believing  that  his  friendliness  had  been  a 
dream.  There  are  possibilities  about  Kim  ; 
and  I  believe  that  if  he  were  to  stop  with 
me  for  two  years  we  should  come  to  a  very 
tolerable  understanding. 


ON    PIRATES 

OF  the  nameless  classics  which  were  of  so 
much  concern  to  all  of  us  when  we  were 
young,  the  most  important  were  certainly 
those  salt  and  blusterous  volumes  that  told 
of  pirates.  It  was  in  vain  for  kindly  rela- 
tives to  give  us  books  on  Nelson  and  his 
like  ;  for  their  craft,  beautiful  though  they 
might  be  to  the  eye,  had  ever  the  moralities 
lurking  between  decks,  and  if  we  met  them 
it  was  only  that  we  might  make  their  crews 
walk  the  plank,  and  add  new  stores  of  guns 
and  treasure  to  the  crimson  vessel  with  the 
sinister  flag  which  it  was  our  pleasure  to 
command. 

And  yet  the  books  that  gave  us  this 
splendid  dominion,  where  are  they  now? 
In  truth,  I  cannot  say.  Examination  of 
recent  boys'  books  has  convinced  me  that 

182 


ON  PIRATES  183 

the  old  spirit  is  lacking,  for  if  pirates  are 
there,  it  is  only  as  the  hapless  victims  of 
horrible  British  crews  with  every  virtue  save 
that  one  which  youth  should  cherish  most, 
the  revolutionary  spirit.  Who  would  be  a 
midshipman  when  he  might  be  a  pirate? 
Yet  all  the  books  would  have  it  so,  and  even 
Mr.  Kenneth  Grahame,  who  knows  every- 
thing that  is  worth  knowing,  does  not  always 
take  the  right  side  in  such  matters.  The 
grown-up  books  are  equally  unsatisfactory 
to  the  inquiring  mind.  "Treasure  Island," 
which  is  sometimes  loosely  referred  to  as 
if  it  were  a  horn-book  for  young  pirates, 
hardly  touches  the  main  problems  of  pirate 
life  at  all.  Stevenson's  consideration  for 
"  youth  and  the  fond  parient "  made  him 
leave  out  all  oaths.  No  ships  are  taken,  no 
lovely  females  captured,  nobody  walks  the 
plank,  and  Captain  John  Silver,  for  all  the 
maimed  strength  and  masterfulness  that 
Henley  suggested  to  the  author,  falls  lament- 
ably short  of  what  a  pirate  should  be. 
Captain  Teach,  of  the  Sarah,  in  the  "  Master 
of  Ballantrae,"  is  better,  and  there  were 
the  makings  of  a  very  good  pirate  captain 


184     THE   DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

in  the  master  himself,  but  this  section  of 
the  book  is  too  short  to  supply  our  require- 
ments. The  book  must  be  all  pirates. 
Defoe's  "  Captain  Singleton  "  repents  and  is 
therefore  disqualified,  and  Marryat's  "  Pirate  " 
is,  as  Stevenson  said,  "written  in  sand  with 
a  saltspoon."  Mr.  Clark  Russell,  in  one  of 
his  romances,  ingeniously  melts  a  pirate  who 
has  been  frozen  for  a  couple  of  centuries 
into  life,  but  though  he  promises  well  at 
first,  his  is  but  a  torpid  ferocity,  and  ends, 
as  it  began,  in  words.  Nor  are  the  histories 
of  the  pirates  more  satisfying.  Captain 
Johnson's  "  History  of  Notorious  Pirates " 
I  have  not  seen,  but  any  one  who  wishes  to 
lose  an  illusion  can  read  the  trial  of  William 
Kidd  and  a  few  of  his  companions  in  the 
State  trials  of  the  year  1701.  The  captain 
of  the  Adventure  Galley  appears  to  have 
done  little  to  merit  the  name  of  pirate 
beyond  killing  his  gunner  with  a  bucket,  and 
the  miserable  results  of  his  pilferings  bear 
no  relationship  to  the  enormous  hoard 
associated  with  his  name  in  "  The  Gold 
Bug "  of  Poe,  though  there  is  certainly  a 
familiar  note  in  finding  included  among  his 


ON  PIRATES  185 

captives  a  number  of  barrels  of  sugar-candy, 
which  were  divided  in  shares  among  the 
crew,  the  captain  himself  having  forty 
shares.  The  Turkish  pirates  mentioned  in 
"  Purchas  "  cut  a  very  poor  figure.  You  can 
read  there  how  four  English  youths  over- 
came a  prize  crew  of  thirteen  men  who  had 
been  put  in  the  ship  Jacob.  In  a  storm 
they  slew  the  pirate  captain,  for  with  the 
handle  of  a  pump  "  they  gave  him  such  a 
palt  on  the  pate  as  made  his  brains  forsake 
the  possession  of  his  head."  They  then 
killed  three  of  the  other  pirates  with  "  cuttle- 
axes,"  and  brought  the  ship  safely  into 
Spain,  "  where  they  sold  the  nine  Turkes 
for  galley-slaves  for  a  good  summe  of 
money,  and  as  I  thinke,  a  great  deale  more 
than  they  were  worth."  Not  thus  would 
the  chronicles  have  described  the  pirates 
who  fought  and  caroused  with  such  splendid 
devotion  in  my  youth.  To  die  beneath  the 
handle  of  a  pump  is  an  unworthy  end  for 
a  pirate  captain.  The  "  History  of  the 
Buccaneers  of  America,"  written  by  a 
brother  of  Fanny  Burney,  a  book  which  was 
the  subject  of  one  of  Mr.  Andrew  Lang's 


186    THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

appreciative  essays,  is  nearer  the  mark,  for 
among  other  notable  fellows  mentioned 
therein  is  one  Francois  L'Olonnois,  who  put 
to  death  the  whole  crew  of  a  Spanish  ship, 
ninety  men,  by  beheading  them,  perform- 
ing himself  the  office  of  executioner.  One 
of  the  gentlemen  in  this  book  turned  bucca- 
neer in  order  to  pay  his  debts,  while  it  is 
told  of  another  that  he  shot  one  of  his  crew 
in  church  for  behaving  irreverently  during 
Mass.  Sir  Henry  Morgan  and  Richard 
Sawkins  performed  some  pretty  feats  of 
piracy,  but  their  main  energies  were  con- 
cerned in  the  sacking  of  towns,  and  the 
whole  book  suffers  from  an  unaccountable 
prejudice  which  the  author  displays  against 
the  brave  and  hard-working  villains  of  whom 
he  writes. 

In  truth,  these  real  pirates  are  disappoint- 
ing men  to  meet.  They  are  usually  lacking 
in  fierceness  and  in  fidelity  to  the  pirate 
ideals  of  courage  and  faithfulness  to  their 
comrades,  while  the  fine  nobility  of  char- 
acter which  was  never  absent  from  those 
other  pirates  is  unknown  in  the  historical 
kind.  Few,  if  any,  of  them  merit  the  old 


ON   PIRATES  187 

Portuguese  punishment  for  pirates,  which 
consisted  in  hanging  them  from  the  yards 
of  their  own  ship,  and  setting  the  latter  to 
drift  with  the  winds  and  waves  without 
rudder  or  sails,  an  example  for  rogues  and 
a  source  of  considerable  danger  to  honest 
mariners. 

If  that  were  a  fitting  end  for  great  knaves, 
the  meaner  ruffians  must  be  content  with 
the  pump-handle  and  the  bucket. 

It  is  hard  if  our  hearts  may  not  go  out 
to  those  gloomy  vessels,  with  their  cargoes 
of  gold  and  courage  and  rum,  that  sail,  it 
seems,  the  mental  seas  of  youth  no  more. 
Were  they  really  bad  for  us,  those  sanguin- 
ary tussles,  those  star -lit  nights  of  dissipa- 
tion? A  pinafore  would  wipe  away  a  deal 
of  blood,  and  the  rum,  though  we  might 
drink  it  boiling  like  Quilp,  in  no  wise 
lessened  our  interest  in  home-made  cake. 
But  these  regrets  are  of  yesterday,  and  to- 
day I  must  draw  what  consolation  I  may 
from  the  kindly  comment  of  Mr.  Lang : 
"  Alluring  as  the  pirate's  profession  is,  we 
must  not  forget  that  it  had  a  seamy  side, 
and  was  by  no  means  all  rum  and  pieces-of- 


188    THE   DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

eight.  And  there  is  something  repulsive  to 
a  generous  nature  in  roasting  men  because 
they  will  not  show  you  where  to  steal 
hogs." 


THE    FLUTE-PLAYER 

HE  used  to  play  to  me  in  the  magic  hour 
before  bedtime,  when,  in  the  summer,  the 
red  sun  threw  long  shadows  across  the  lawn, 
and  in  winter  the  fire  burned  brighter  and 
brighter  in  the  hearth.  This  was  the  hour 
when  all  the  interminable  squabbles  of  the 
schoolroom  were  forgotten,  and  even  the 
noisiest  of  us  would  hush  his  voice  to  listen 
drowsily  to  a  fairy-tale,  or  to  watch  the 
palaces  raise  aloft  their  minarets,  and 
crumble  to  dull  red  ash  in  the  heart  of  the 
fire.  It  was  then  that  I  would  see  him 
sitting  astride  of  the  fireguard  and  puffing 
out  his  cheeks  over  his  shining  flute.  Even 
in  the  most  thrilling  moments  of  fairy 
stories,  when  Cinderella  lost  her  crystal 
slipper  or  Sister  Ann  saw  the  cloud  of  dust 
from  the  summit  of  Bluebeard's  tower,  his 
shrill  melodies  would  ring  in  my  ears  and 

189 


190  THE  FLUTE-PLAYER 

quicken  my  sleepy  senses  with  the  desire  to 
hear  more  of  this  enchanted  music.  I  knew 
that  it  was  real  magic,  but  I  did  not  find 
it  strange,  because  as  far  as  I  knew  I  had 
heard  it  all  my  life.  Perhaps  he  had  played 
to  me  when  I  yet  lay  in  my  cradle,  and 
watched  the  night-light  winking  on  the 
nursery  ceiling ;  but  I  did  not  try  to 
remember  whether  this  was  so.  I  was  content 
to  accept  my  strange  musician  as  a  fact  of 
my  existence,  and  to  feel  a  sense  of  loss 
on  the  rare  evenings  when  he  failed  me. 
I  did  not  know  how  to  dance,  but  sometimes 
I  would  tap  my  feet  on  the  floor  in  time  to 
the  music,  till  some  one  would  tell  me  not 
to  fidget.  For  no  one  else  would  either  see 
him  or  hear  him,  which  proved  that  it  was 
real  magic,  and  flattered  my  sense  of  pos- 
session. It  was  evident  that  he  came  for 
me  alone. 

The  years  passed,  and  in  due  course  the 
imaginative  graces  of  my  childhood  were 
destroyed  by  the  boys  of  my  own  age  at 
school.  They  compelled  me  to  exchange  a 
hundred  star -roofed  palaces,  three  distinct 
kingdoms  of  dreams,  and  my  enchanted  flute- 


THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY    191 

player  for  a  threadbare  habit  of  mimicry 
that  left  me  cold  and  unprotected  from  the 
winds  in  the  large  places  of  life.  There 
was  something  at  once  pathetic  and  ridi- 
culous in  our  childish  efforts  to  imitate  our 
elders,  but  as  it  seemed  that  our  masters 
and  grown-up  relatives  were  in  the  con- 
spiracy to  make  us  materialistically  wise 
before  our  time,  a  boy  would  have  needed  a 
rare  force  of  character  to  linger  with  his 
childhood  and  refuse  to  ape  the  man.  So, 
for  a  while,  I  saw  my  glad  musician  no  more, 
though  sometimes  I  thought  I  heard  him 
playing  far  away,  and  the  child  within  me 
was  warmed  and  encouraged  even  while  my 
new-found  manhood  was  condemning  the 
weakness.  I  knew  now  that  no  man  worthy 
of  the  name  was  escorted  through  life  by 
a  fairy  flute-player,  and  that  dreamers  and 
wool -gatherers  invariably  sank  to  be  poets 
and  musicians,  persons  who  wear  bowler- 
hats  with  frock-coats,  have  no  crease  in  their 
trousers,  and  come  to  a  bad  end.  Fortu- 
nately, all  education  that  is  repressive  rather 
than  stimulating  is  only  skin-deep,  and  it 
was  inevitable  that  sooner  or  later  I  should 


192  THE  FLUTE-PLAYER 

meet  the  flute -player  again.  One  Saturday 
afternoon  in  high  summer  I  avoided  cricket 
and  went  for  a  long  walk  in  the  woods, 
moved  by  a  spirit  of  revolt  against  all  the 
traditions  and  conventions  of  boy -life  ;  and 
presently,  in  a  mossy  clearing,  all  splashed 
and  wetted  by  little  pools  of  sunlight,  I 
found  him  playing  to  an  audience  of  two 
squirrels  and  a  redstart.  When  he  saw  me 
he  winked  the  eye  that  glittered  over  his 
parading  fingers,  as  though  he  had  left  me 
only  five  minutes  before,  but  I  had  not 
listened  long  before  I  realised  that  I  must 
pay  the  price  of  my  infidelity.  It  was  the 
old  music  and  the  old  magic,  but  try  as 
I  might  I  could  not  hear  it  so  clearly  as  I 
had  when  I  was  a  child.  The  continuity  of 
my  faith  had  been  broken,  and  though  he 
was  willing  to  forgive,  I  myself  could  not 
forget  those  dark  years  of  doubt  and  denial ; 
and  while  I  often  met  him  in  the  days  that 
followed,  I  never  won  back  to  the  old 
childish  intimacy.  I  sought  his  company 
eagerly  and  listened  passionately  to  his 
piping,  but  I  was  conscious  now  that  this 
was  a  strange  thing,  and  sometimes  when  he 


THE  DAY  BEFORE   YESTERDAY    193 

saw  by  my  eyes  that  I  was  moved  by 
wonder  rather  than  by  the  love  of  beauty, 
he  would  put  his  flute  in  his  pocket  and 
disappear.  The  world  is  an  enchanted  place 
only  to  the  incurious  and  tranquil -minded. 

Nevertheless,  though  like  all  boys  I  had 
been  forced  to  discard  my  childish  dreams 
before  I  had  really  finished  with  them,  the 
lovely  melodies  of  the  flute -player  served  to 
enrich  my  latter  years  at  school  with  much 
of  the  old  enchantment.  Often  enough  he 
would  play  to  me  at  night  during  prepara- 
tion, and  I  would  spend  my  time  in  trying 
to  set  words  to  his  tunes  instead  of  doing 
my  lessons.  It  was  then  that  I  regretted 
the  lost  years  that  had  dulled  my  ear  and 
prevented  me  from  winning  the  inmost  magic 
of  his  song,  compared  with  which  my  verses 
seemed  but  the  shadow  of  a  shadow.  Yet  I 
saw  that  he  was  content  with  my  efforts, 
and  gradually  made  the  discovery  that  while 
great  achievement  is  granted  to  the  fortu- 
nate, it  is  the  fine  effort  that  justifies  a  man 
to  himself.  What  did  it  matter  whether  my 
songs  were  good  or  bad?  They  were  the 
highest  expression  I  could  find  for  the 

14 


194  THE  FLUTE-PLAYER 

rapture  of  beauty  that  had  filled  my  heart 
as  a  child  when  I  had  been  gifted  to  see 
life  with  clean  and  truthful  eyes.  For  the 
songs  the  flute -player  played  to  me  were  the 
great  dreams  of  my  childhood,  the  dreams 
that  a  wise  man  prolongs  to  the  day  of  his 
death. 

I  do  not  hear  him  often  now,  for  I  have 
learnt  my  lesson,  and  though  my  hands 
tremble  and  my  ear  deceives  me,  I  am  by 
way  of  being  a  flute-player  myself.  This 
article,  it  is  clear,  is  a  child's  dream,  and 
so  have  been,  and  will  be,  I  hope,  all  the 
articles  I  shall  ever  write.  What  else  should 
we  write  about?  We  have  learnt  a  few  long 
words  since  we  grew  up,  and  a  few  crimes, 
but  no  new  virtues.  That  is  why  I  like  to 
get  back  to  the  nursery  floor,  and  play  with 
the  old  toys  and  think  the  old  thoughts.  We 
knew  intuitively  then  a  number  of  beau- 
tiful truths  that  circumstance  appears  to 
deny  now,  and  we  grown  men  are  the  poorer 
in  consequence.  It  is  folly  to  find  life  ugly 
when  the  flute  lies  within  our  reach  and  we 
can  pipe  ourselves  back  to  the  world  of 
beauty  with  a  song  made  of  an  old  dream. 


THE   DAY   BEFORE   YESTERDAY     195 

As  for  the  flute-player,  if  I  see  him  no 
more  with  wakeful  eyes,  I  know  that  he  is 
never  very  far  away.     Likely  enough  one  of 
these   wintry   evenings,  -in   the   hour   before 
bedtime,  when  the  fire  burns  brighter  and 
brighter  in  the  hearth,  I  shall  look  up  and 
see  him  sitting  astride  of  the  fireguard  and 
puffing  out  his  cheeks  over  his  shining  flute. 
Not  many  nights  ago  I  heard  some  one  play- 
ing the  flute  out  in  the  street,  and  I  went 
down  and  found  a  poor  fellow  blowing  his 
heart   out   for   rare    sous.     There   was   not 
much  enchantment  about  him— he  had  been 
dismissed   from   a  music-hall   orchestra  for 
drinking  red  wine  to  excess— but  he  was  a 
real  flute -player,  and  I  could  well  imagine 
that   such    a   man    might   be   driven   to    in- 
temperance by  the  failure  to  achieve  those 
"  unheard  melodies  "  not  to  be  detected  by 
the  sensual  ear.     To  be  a  bad  flute -player 
must   be   rather   like   being   a   bad   poet,    a 
joyous  but  sadly  finite  life.     He  was  a  sad 
dog,  this  earthly  musician,  and  he  frankly 
conceived  the  ideal  state  as  a  kind  of  com- 
munal Bodega  where  thirsty  souls  could  find 
peace  in  satiety.     I  gave  him  fivepence  to 


196  THE  FLUTE-PLAYER 

help  him  on  his  way,  and  left  him  to  make 
doleful  music  in  the  night  till  he  had  enough 
money  to  supply  his  crimson  dreams.  But 
he  ought  not  to  have  said  that  my  flute- 
player  was  only  an  amateur. 


THE    WOOL-GATHERER 

WHEN  he  walked  down  the  streets  with  his 
head  drooping  towards  the  pavement  and  his 
hands  thrust  deep  into  the  pockets  of 
his  overcoat  the  grown-ups  would  say, 
"There  goes  poor  Mr.  X.  wool-gathering  as 
usual  "  ;  and  we  children  used  to  wonder 
what  he  did  with  all  the  wool  and  where 
he  found  it  to  gather.  Perhaps  he  collected 
it  from  the  thorn-bushes  whereon  the  sheep 
had  scratched  themselves,  or  perhaps,  being 
a  magician,  he  had  found  a  way  to  shear  the 
flocks  that  we  often  saw  in  the  sky  on  fine 
and  windy  days.  At  all  events,  for  a  while 
his  strange  calling  made  us  regard  him  with 
interest  as  a  man  capable  of  doing  dark  and 
mysterious  things.  Then  the  grown-ups  tried 
to  dispel  our  illusions  by  explaining  that 
they  only  meant  that  he  was  absent-minded, 
a  dreamer,  an  awful  warning  to  young  folk 

197 


who  had  their  way  to  make  in  the  world. 
This  admirable  moral  lesson,  like  most  of 
their  moral  lessons,  failed  because  they  did 
not  appreciate  the  subtlety  of  our  minds. 
We  saw  that  the  wool-gatherer  did  no  recog- 
nisable work,  wore  comfortably  untidy 
clothes,  walked  in  the  mud  as  much  as 
he  wanted  to,  and,  in  fine,  lived  a  life  of 
enviable  freedom  ;  and  we  thought  that  on 
the  whole  when  we  grew  up  we  should  like 
to  be  wool -gatherers  too.  Even  the  phrase 
"  absent-minded  "  excited  our  admiration  ; 
for  we  knew  that  it  would  be  a  fine  thing 
if  our  thoughts  could  travel  in  foreign  coun- 
tries, where  there  are  parrots  and  monkeys 
loose  in  the  woods,  while  our  bodies  were 
imprisoned  in  the  schoolroom  under  the  un- 
sympathetic supervision  of  the  governess  of 
the  moment.  Although  we  no  longer  credited 
him  with  being  a  magician,  the  tardy 
explanations  of  the  grown-ups  had,  if  any- 
thing, increased  his  glamour.  It  seemed  to 
us  that  he  must  be  very  wise. 

He  lived  in  an  old  house  a  little  way  out 
of  the  town,  and  the  house  stood  in  a  garden 
after  our  own  heart.  We  knew  by  the 


THE  WOOL-GATHERER  199 

shocked  comments  of  our  elders  that  it  had 
formerly  been  cut  and  trimmed  like  all 
the  other  gardens  with  which  we  were 
acquainted,  but  it  was  now  a  perfect  wilder- 
ness, a  delightful  place.  My  brother  and 
I  got  up  early  one  morning  when  the  dew 
was  on  the  world  and  explored  it  thoroughly. 
We  found  a  goat  in  an  outhouse  and  could 
see  the  marks  in  the  meadow  that  had  once 
been  a  lawn,  where  he  was  tethered  during 
the  day.  The  wool-gatherer  was  evidently 
in  the  habit  of  sitting  under  a  tree  that  stood 
at  one  corner,  for  the  earth  was  pitted  with 
the  holes  that  had  been  made  by  the  legs 
of  his  chair.  Being  a  wise  man,  we  thought 
it  probable  that  he  conversed  with  his  goat 
and  could  understand  the  answers  of  that 
pensive  animal,  who  wagged  his  beard  at  us 
when  we  peeped  shyly  into  his  den.  In  the 
long  grass  by  the  tree  we  found  a  book 
bound  like  a  school  prize  lying  quite  wet 
with  the  dew.  It  was  full  of  cabalistic  signs, 
and  we  took  care  to  leave  it  where  we  found 
it  lest  it  should  be  black  magic,  though  now 
I  would  support  the  theory  that  Mr.  X.  read 
his  Homer  in  the  original.  Taking  it 


200    THE   DAY   BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

altogether,  it  was  the  most  sensible  garden 
we  had  ever  seen,  with  plenty  of  old  fruit- 
trees,  but  with  none  of  those  silly  flower- 
beds that  incommode  the  careless  feet  of 
youth.  Our  expedition  enhanced  our  opinion 
of  the  wool -gatherer's  wisdom. 

Here  at  least  was  a  grown-up  person  who 
knew  how  to  live  in  a  decent  fashion,  and 
when  he  ambled  by  us  in  the  market-place, 
his  muddy  boots  tripping  on  the  cobbles, 
and  the  pockets  of  his  green-grey  overcoat 
pulled  down  by  the  weight  of  his  hands,  our 
eyes  paid  him  respectful  tribute.  He  really 
served  a  useful  purpose  in  our  universe,  for 
he  showed  us  that  it  was  possible  to  grow 
old  without  going  hopelessly  to  the  bad. 
Sometimes,  considering  the  sad  lives  of  our 
elders  who  did  of  their  own  free  will  all 
the  disagreeable  things  that  we  were  made 
to  do  by  force,  we  had  been  smitten  with 
the  fear  that  in  the  course  of  years  we,  too, 
would  be  afflicted  with  this  melancholy 
disease.  The  wool -gatherer  restored  our 
confidence  in  ourselves.  If  he  could  be 
grown-up  without  troubling  to  be  tidy  or 
energetic,  why,  then,  so  could  we  !  It  amused 


THE   WOOL-GATHERER  201 

us  to  feel  that  our  affronted  rulers  were 
itching  to  give  him  a  good  talking  to  and 
to  send  him  off  to  brush  his  clothes  and  his 
boots ;  but  he  was  beyond  the  reach  of 
authority,  this  splendid  man.  And  one  of 
these  days  we  thought  that  we,  too,  would 
enjoy  this  delightful  condition  of  freedom, 
for,  like  many  grown  men  and  women,  we 
did  not  realise  that  liberty  is  a  state  of  mind 
and  not  an  environment. 

We  had  never  seen  the  inside  of  his  house, 
but  we  could  imagine  what  it  was  like.  No 
doubt  he  kept  his  servants  in  proper  order 
and  did  not  allow  them  to  tidy  up,  so  that 
his  things  lay  all  over  the  room  where  he 
could  find  them  when  he  wanted  them.  He 
had  a  friendly  cat,  with  whom  we  were 
acquainted,  so  that  he  would  not  lack  com- 
pany, and  probably  on  wet  days  when  he 
could  not  go  out  into  the  garden  he  had 
the  goat  in  to  play  with  him.  He  went  to 
bed  when  he  liked  and  got  up  when  he  liked, 
and  had  cake  for  every  meal  instead  of 
common  bread.  A  man  like  that  would  be 
quite  capable  of  having  a  sweetshop  in  one  of 
the  rooms,  with  a  real  pair  of  scales,  so  that 


202    THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

he  could  help  himself  whenever  he  wanted 
to.  Whenever  our  own  lives  grew  a  little 
dull  we  played  at  being  the  wool -gatherer, 
but  although  he  occupied  such  a  large  part 
of  our  thoughts  we  never  dared  to  speak  to 
him,  because  we  were  afraid  of  his  extra- 
ordinary wisdom.  This  was  not  our  normal 
reason  for  avoiding  the  society  of  grown-up 
people. 

When  one  day  a  funeral  passed  us  in  the 
street,  and  we  were  told  that  it  was  the  wool- 
gatherer's,  we  shook  our  heads  sceptically. 
The  coffin  was  quite  new  and  shiii3r,  and  all 
the  horses  had  their  hoofs  neatljr  blacked, 
and  we  thought  we  knew  our  man  better 
than  that.  But  as  day  followed  day  and 
we  met  him  no  more  our  doubts  were  over- 
come, and  we  knew  that  he  was  dead.  After 
a  while  his  will  was  published  in  the  local 
newspaper,  and  the  grown-ups  were  greatly 
impressed,  because  it  seemed  that  he  had 
been  very  rich  and  had  left  all  his  money  to 
hospitals.  Secretly  we  patronised  them  for 
their  tardy  discovery  of  our  man's  worth  ; 
it  had  not  needed  any  newspaper  to  tell  us 
that  he  was  remarkable.  But  when  some 


THE  WOOL-GATHERER  203 

new  people  took  his  house  and  cut  down 
all  the  bushes  and  tidied  up  the  garden  we 
were  really  hurt,  and  began  to  realise  what 
we  had  lost.  Where  should  we  play  now 
these  hot  nights  of  summer  when  the  hours 
passed  so  slowly  and  we  could  not  sleep? 
They  had  made  his  beautiful  wilderness  as 
dull  as  our  own,  and  our  dreams  must  find 
a  new  playground.  We  never  heard  what 
happened  to  the  goat. 

Now  that  I  am  myself  grown-up,  though 
children  occasionally  flatter  me  by  treating 
me  as  an  equal,  I  revert  sometimes  to  our 
earliest  thoughts  and  wonder  what  the  wool- 
gatherer  did  with  all  his  wool.  Perhaps  he 
wove  it  into  blankets  for  the  poor  dreamless 
ones  of  the  world.  They  are  many,  for  it  is 
not  so  easy  to  be  absent-minded  as  people 
think  ;  in  the  first  place,  it  is  necessary  to 
have  a  mind.  It  is  wrong  also  to  believe 
that  wool-gatherers  fill  no  useful  place  in 
life.  I  have  shown  how  Mr.  X.,  lost  in  his 
world  of  dreams,  was  yet  of  real  service  to 
us  as  children,  and  in  the  same  way  I  think 
that  we  who  live  the  hurried  life  derive 
genuine  satisfaction  from  the  spectacle  of 


204    THE   DAY   BEFORE   YESTERDAY 

the  dreamers  sauntering  by.  If  they  serve 
no  other  purpose,  they  are  at  least  mile- 
stones by  aid  of  which  we  can  estimate  our 
own  speed,  and  if  no  one  were  idle  we  would 
win  no  credit  from  our  marvellous  energy. 
Also  they  are  happy,  and  the  philosopher 
will  always  hesitate  to  condemn  the  way  of 
life  of  a  man  who  succeeds  in  that  task. 
Perhaps  we  should  all  be  better  off  gathering 
wool  ! 


IT  is  something  to  have  heard  once  in  a 
lifetime  the  ecstatic  thrill  that  glorifies  Essex 
Hall  while  that  intellectual  pirate  Mr. 
Bernard  Shaw  sails  out  and  scuttles  a 
number  of  little  merchant  ships  of  thought 
that  have  never  hurt  anybody.  The  applause 
and  admiring  laughter  that  punctuate  his 
periods  really  suggest  that  Fabianism  makes 
people  happy,  while  the  continued  prosperity 
of  the  group  gives  the  lie  to  the  cynic  who 
reminded  me  how  popular  ping-pong  was 
while  the  craze  lasted,  and  how  utterly  for- 
gotten it  is  to-day.  But  I  had  to  rub  my 
eyes  while  I  stood  in  the  overcrowded  room, 
listening  to  Puck  in  Jaeger,  more  witty, 
perhaps,  than  the  old  Puck,  but  no  less 
boyishly  malicious,  and  ask  myself  whether, 
after  all,  this  was  only,  the  old  magic  in  a 
new  form.  True,  civilisation  had  perforce 


903 


206    THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

made  him  larger  in  order  that  human  beings 
might  appreciate  his  eloquence,  and  I  saw 
no  traces  of  wings  or  magic  flowers.  But 
beyond  that  I  recognised  the  same  pitying 
contempt  for  mortals,  the  same  arrogant  con- 
fession of  his  own  faults,  the  same  naive 
cunning.  And  then  (perhaps  a  turn  of  the 
voice  did  it,  or  some  slight  slurring  of  the 
words)  the  enchantment  passed,  the  ears  of 
his  audience  resumed  their  ordinary  dimen- 
sions, and  I  offered  mentally  two  teaspoon- 
fuls  of  honey  to  the  real  Puck,  for  I  saw 
that  he  had  tricked  me  into  recognising 
his  qualities  in  the  most  serious  man  the 
twentieth  century  knows. 

Yet,  though  I  found  Mr.  Shaw  to  be  only 
a  prophet  and  his  fellow-Fabians  honest 
enthusiasts  instead  of  bewitched  weavers,  I 
cannot  say  that  the  discovery  left  my  mind 
at  ease  for  the  welfare  of  the  fairy  kingdom 
that  is  so  important  to  every  one  who  has 
not  forgotten  it.  What  if  this  terrible 
seriousness  were  to  spread?  What  if  every 
one  were  to  turn  prophet?  What  if  a  night 
should  come  when  never  a  child  in  all  the 
Duke  of  York's  Theatre  would  clap  its  hands 


THE   PERIL  OF  THE  FAIRIES       207 

to  keep  Tinker  Bell  alive?    At  first  I  wished 
to  reject  this  frightful  end  of  all  our  play 
and  laughter  and  wonder  as  impossible.    Yet 
sinister   stories   of   children   who    preferred 
sewing-machines    and    working    models    to 
dolls  and  tin  soldiers  rose  in  my  mind,  and 
it  is  hardly  more  than  a  step  from  that  (degree 
of  progress   to  the   case   of  the   child  who 
may  find  the  science  of  sanitation  more  in- 
teresting than  tales  of  fairies.  The  possibility 
should   make   even   the   extremists   shudder, 
but  it  must  be  remembered  that  many  honest 
people  believe  in  technical  education,  and  that 
for  that  matter  practically  the  whole  of  the 
teaching  in  our  schools  takes  the  form  of 
an  attack  on  the  stronghold  of  the  imagina- 
tive child.     It  is  our  barbarous  custom  to 
supplant  a  child's  really  beautiful  theories 
with  the  ugly  crudities  which  we  call  facts, 
and   it   is   impossible  to   realise  how  much 
humanity  loses  in  the  process.     As  for  the 
fairies,  frail  little  folk  at  best,  how  shall  they 
prevail  against  the  criticism  of  our  sulphur 
and   the   cunning   of   our   permanganate   of 
potash?     Shall  we   always   be   able  to  dis- 
tinguish them  from  microbes? 


208    THE  DAY  BEFORE   YESTERDAY 

It  may  be  well  to  pause  here  and  see 
whither  the  wise,  serious  men  of  to-day  are 
taking  us.  I  suppose  they  will  abolish  Will- 
o'-the-Wisp  by  draining  all  the  marshes,  and 
their  extreme  industry  will  render  Puck's 
kindly  household  labours  ludicrously  un- 
necessary. They  will  turn  their  swords 
against  all  the  bad  barons,  unjust  kings,  and 
spiteful  magicians,  whose  punishment  has 
been  hitherto  the  fairies'  special  task  ;  and 
this  they  will  do  in  blackleg  fashion,  neither 
demanding  nor  receiving  their  just  wages  of 
beauty  and  immortality.  They  will  scorn- 
fully set  aside  the  law,  so  dear  to  the 
younger  inhabitants  of  nurseries,  by  which 
it  is  always  the  youngest  son  or  the 
youngest  daughter  whom  the  gods  delight 
to  honour.  They  will  fill  with  porridge 
and  deck  with  flannel  underclothing  the 
little  flower-girls  and  crossing-sweepers, 
whose  triumphs  set  faith  in  the  eyes  of 
babes.  With  their  hard,  cruel  facts  they 
will  completely  wreck  the  fairy  civilisa- 
tion which  has  taken  centuries  of  dreaming 
and  wondering  children  to  construct.  They 
will  brush  our  fancies  away  like  cobwebs. 


THE  PERIL  OF  THE  FAIRIES       209 

A  while  ago,  when  I  was  a  little  boy,  some 
enemy  seeing  me  admire  the  stars  thought  it 
necessary  to  tell  me  exactly  what  they  were  ; 
later,  my  natural  interest  in  the  extra- 
ordinary behaviour  of  the  sea  led  another 
enemy  to  place  a  globe  in  my  hands,  and 
prick  the  bubble  of  the  universe  with 
ridiculous  explanations.  So  it  is  that  when 
I  regard  the  heavens  I  see  enormous  balls 
of  rotting  chemicals,  rendered  contemptibly 
small  by  distance,  floating  in  a  thin  fluid 
called  space  ;  so  it  is  that  when  I  look  at 
the  sea  my  mind  is  occupied  with  stupid 
problems  about  the  route, of  floating  bamboos, 
when  I  ought  to  be  exalted  as  one  who  peers 
out  through  the  darkness  towards  the  Un- 
known. Where  there  were  two  then,  there 
are  to-day  twenty  kindly  persons  about  every 
child,  eager  to  prove  the  things  it  would 
like  to  believe  in  superstitions,  and  eager 
to  explain  away  its  miracles  in  terms  of 
dustcarts  and  vegetable  soup.  Our  babies 
are  taught  to  hang  out  their  stockings  and 
to  batter  in  their  empty  egg-shells,  but  are 
reminded  at  the  same  moment  that  these 
charming  rituals  are  but  follies,  and  that 

15 


210    THE   DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

the  capital  of  Scotland  is  Edinburgh. 
Youngsters  babble  Imperialism  and  Socialism 
when  they  ought  to  be  standing  on  their 
heads  to  look  at  the  Antipodes,  and  their 
parents  commend  their  common  sense. 
Already,  I  fear,  the  wings  of  many  of  the 
fairies  are  beginning  to  fade,  and  Puck 
capers  but  mournfully  in  his  lonely  haunts. 
But  fairies,  goblins,  elves,  call  them  what 
you  will,  they  are  worth  having,  and  that 
is  why  I  would  entreat  the  wise  men  who 
are  arranging  to-morrow  for  us  to  spare 
them,  even  though  they  have  forgotten  them- 
selves all  that  the  presence  of  fairies  in  the 
world  is  worth.  By  all  means  feed  the 
children  and  give  them  Union  Jacks,  but 
let  their  faith  in  the  beautiful  be  looked  to 
as  well.  And,  finally,  to  the  serious  person 
who  says  with  raised  eyebrows,  "  You  can't 
honestly  say  you  believe  in  fairies ! "  I 
would  answer  this :  In  a  world  which  at 
present  is  fiercely  antagonistic  to  the  belief 
in  any  emotion  less  material  than  hunger,  it 
is  impossible  to  avoid  occasional  doubt  con- 
cerning the  existence  of  anything  which  it 
is  not  possible  to  eat.  But  when  I  am  in 


THE   PERIL  OF  THE   FAIRIES       211 

the  company  of  those  who  really  do  believe 
I  do  not  fail  to  hear  the  echoes  of  fairy 
laughter  in  their  speech,  and  see  the  flicker 
of  fairy  wings  reflected  in  their  eyes,  and 
with  this  knowledge  I  am  content. 


DRURY    LANE    AND    THE    CHILDREN 

WE  have  noticed  that  in  writing  about  panto- 
mimes the  critics  of  our  contemporaries 
usually  make  two  rather  serious  mistakes. 
The  first  is  the  assumption  that  pantomime 
is  really  intended  for  the  amusement  of 
children,  and  the  second  (which  to  a  certain 
extent  is  implicit  in  the  first)  is  the  con- 
clusion that  most  pantomimes  are  unsatis- 
factory because  they  fail  to  provide  the 
children  with  suitable  fare.  A  glance  at  any 
pantomime  audience  should  dispel  the  first 
illusion.  Even  at  matinees  the  children  are 
in  the  minority,  while  at  night  the  dispro- 
portion is  quite  startling.  To  us  it  seems  that 
the  real  purpose  of  modern  pantomime  is 
to  give  conscientious  objectors  to  music-halls 
an  opportunity  of  witnessing  a  music-hall 
entertainment  without  shame.  It  follows 
that,  even  if  the  second  criticism  were  just, 

312 


DRURY  LANE   AND  THE   CHILDREN     213 

it  would  not  be  very  important ;  but  though 
we  agree  that  the  average  pantomime  is  far 
removed  from  the  ideal  entertainment  for 
children,  it  is  at  all  events  quite  harmless, 
and  contains  a  number  of  elements  that 
children  like.  They  appreciate  the  colour 
of  the  pageant,  the  papier-mache  treasures, 
the  gilt  moons  and  ultramarine  sunsets,  the 
jewelled  and  gilt  scenery ;  they  like  the 
funny  clothes  and  red  noses  and  boisterous 
horseplay  of  the  low  comedians  ;  they  like 
the  "  little  girls "  in  short  skirts,  in  whom 
the  sophisticated  recognise  the  tired  ladies  of 
the  ballet ;  they  like,  in  fact,  nearly  all 
the  things  which  writers  with  sentimental 
views  on  children  think  it  necessary  to 
condemn.  As  a  general  rule  they  do  not 
care  for  the  love-making  or  the  singing ; 
after  a  long  experience  of  pantomimes 
we  are  prepared  to  say  that  they  are 
right,  though  our  reasons  are  not  perhaps 
theirs.  The  singing  in  pantomimes  is  nearly 
always  extremely  bad,  and  the  fact  that  the 
principal  boy  is  always  the  principal  girl 
makes  the  Jove-scenes  ridiculous.  The 
wonder  is  that  in  an  entertainment  (hat 


214    THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

must  at  all  costs  be  made  attractive  to 
adults  there  should  be  so  much  that  gives 
genuine  pleasure  to  young  people. 

From  the  days  of  our  youth  we  have 
always  had  a  kindness  for  Drury  Lane 
Theatre,  and,  above  all,  for  Drury  Lane 
pantomime.  The  theatre  has  an  individual 
atmosphere,  the  pantomime  is  not  like  the 
pantomime  one  sees  anywhere  else.  In 
order  to  appreciate  the  size  of  the  place  it 
is  necessary  to  put  on  a  very  small  pair  of 
knickerbockers  and  gaze  upwards  from  the 
stalls  between  the  chocolates  and  the  ices. 
It  is  like  looking  into  the  deeps  of  heaven, 
though  here  the  gods  suck  oranges  and  make 
cat -calls— those  fascinating  sounds  that  our 
youthful  lips  would  never  achieve.  Drury 
Lane  is  the  only  theatre  that  preserves  the 
old  glamour.  We  never  enter  its  doors  with- 
out thinking  of  Charles  Lamb,  and  it  would 
hardly  astonish  us  if  Mistress  Nell  Gwynn 
came  to  greet  us  with  her  basket  of  China 
oranges,  wearing  that  famous  pair  of  thick 
worsted  stockings  that  the  little  link-boy  gave 
her  to  save  her  pretty  feet  from  the  chil- 
blains. Outside,  the  image  of  Shakespeare 


DRURY  LANE   AND  THE   CHILDREN     215 

leans  on  its  pedestal,  sadly  contemplative  of 
the  grey  roofs  of  Covent  Garden.  The 
porters  who  carry  about  bunches  of  bananas 
unconsciously  reproduce  the  pictures  of  Mr. 
Frank  Brangwyn.  If  Shakespeare  ever  slips 
down  from  his  perch  to  watch  a  scene  or 
two  of  the  pantomime  from  the  shadows  of 
the  auditorium,  he  must  wonder  a  little  at 
our  twentieth -century  masques.  Like  the 
children,  he  would  probably  appreciate 
the  splendid  colour  and  brightness  of  the 
spectacle,  and,  having  been  an  actor  him- 
self, he  would  perhaps  pardon  the  actors' 
cheerful  neglect  of  the  rights  of  the 
dramatist.  For  modern  pantomime  is  a 
business  of  strongly  contrasted  individualities 
rather  than  the  product  of  blended  and 
related  effort.  This  is  especially  true  of 
Drury  Lane,  whose  stage  at  this  season  of 
the  year  is  always  crowded  with  vaudeville 
Napoleons  and  musical -comedy  Cleopatras. 
In  detail  the  pantomime  is  excellent ;  as  an 
artistic  entity  it  does  not  exist. 

At  first  sight  this  seems  rather  a  pity. 
Given  a  wonderfully  appointed  stage, 
gorgeous  mounting,  a  fine  orchestra,  and  a 


216    THE  DAY   BEFORE   YESTERDAY 

number  of  gifted  performers,  it  is  natural  to 
expect  that  the  result  should  be  more  than 
the  mere  sum  of  these  units.  But,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  pantomime  is  essentially  formless. 
Those  critics  who  clamour  for  straight- 
forward versions  of  the  old  nursery  stories 
would  be  vastly  disappointed  if  they  got 
what  they  wanted.  The  old  stories  are  well 
enough  when  told  by  firelight  in  the 
nursery  after  tea  of  a  winter's  evening.  But 
they  lack  humour,  and  are  not,  as  a  rule, 
dramatic.  ("  Bluebeard,"  of  course,  is  a 
striking  exception.)  When  a  story  lasting 
twenty  minutes  must  be  expanded  to  last 
four  hours  the  story  is  bound  to  suffer. 
When,  in  addition,  all  the  characters  are 
played  by  performers  whose  strength  lies 
in  their  individuality,  it  will  be  surprising 
if  any  part  of  the  illusion  created  by  the 
original  fable  survives  at  all. 


CHILDREN'S   DRAMA 

AT  a  season  of  the  yqar  when  children  invade 
both  the  stage  and  the  auditorium  of  many 
theatres  in  unwonted  numbers  it  would  be 
at  least  topical  to  speculate  as  to  the  philo- 
sophy of  pantomime  and  the  artistic  merits 
and  defects   of  child   actors    and   actresses. 
But   while   juvenile   mimicry   of   adult   con- 
ceptions  of  drama   is   entertaining   enough, 
it  is  more  to   our  purpose  to   consider  the 
dramatic  spirit  as  it  is   actually  present  in 
children  themselves.     Pantomimes  certainly 
do   not  reflect  this   spirit,   and,   in  spite   of 
the   sentimental,   but   hardly   more   childish 
influence  of  fairy-plays,  are  still  aimed  ex- 
clusively at  adult  audiences  who  grant  them- 
selves no  other  opportunity  of  appreciating 
the  humours  of  the  music-halls.     Probably 
the    ideal    children's    play    would    have    the 
colour    of    pantomime,    the    atmosphere    of 

217 


218    THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

"  Peter  Pan,"  the  poetry  of  the  "  Blue  Bird," 
and,  most  important  of  all,  a  downright 
melodramatic  plot.  It  is  this  last  that 
is  invariably  lacking  in  entertainments 
nominally  provided  for  children  ;  it  is  the 
first  consideration  in  the  entertainments  they 
provide  for  themselves. 

If  grown-up  people  were  in  the  habit, 
which  unfortunately  they  are  not,  of  meeting 
together  in  moments  of  relaxation  and  acting 
little  extemporary  plays,  these  plays  would 
surely  give  a  first-hand  indication  of  the 
dramatic  situations  that  interested  them.  Yet 
this  is  what  children  are  always  doing,  and 
in  terms  of  play  every  little  boy  is  a  dashing 
and  manly  actor  and  every  little  girl  a  beau- 
tiful and  accomplished  actress.  From  the 
first  glad  hour  when  little  brother  cries  to 
little  sister,  "  You  be  Red  Riding  Hood,  and 
I'll  be  the  wolf  and  eat  you  ! "  the  dramatic 
aspect  of  life  is  never  absent  from  the  mind 
of  imaginative  youth. 

In  one  respect,  at  all  events,  these  play- 
dramas  of  children  should  meet  with  the 
approval  of  modern  dramatic  critics.  No 
one  can  accuse  them  of  losing  sight  of  the 


CHILDREN'S   DRAMA  219 

motive  of  their  drama  in  elaboration  of 
scenery  or  stage  effects.  A  chair  will  serve 
for  a  beleagured  castle,  a  pirate  ship,  or 
Cinderella's  coach  in  turn,  and  the  costumes 
imitate  this  Elizabethan  simplicity.  Never- 
theless, it  cannot  be  said  that  their  stage  is 
entirely  free  from  the  tyranny  of  those  per- 
nicious conventions  that  place  obstacles  in 
the  way  of  art.  The  law  of  primogeniture, 
always  rigidly  enforced  in  nurseries,  as  Mr. 
Kenneth  Grahame  has  observed,  makes  the 
eldest  brother  as  much  of  a  nuisance  as  the 
actor-manager.  According  to  his  nature,  and 
the  character  of  the  play,  he  always  insists 
on  being  either  hero  or  villain,  and  in  the 
absence  of  limelight  contrives  to  give  him- 
self an  exaggerated  share  both  of  the  action 
and  of  the  dialogue.  Sisters  are  placid 
creatures  and  do  not  very  much  mind 
whether  they  have  anything  to  do  or  not 
as  long  as  they  can  all  be  princesses,  but 
it  is  hard  on  a  younger  brother  to  be  com- 
pelled to  walk  the  plank,  although  he  has 
the  heart  of  a  pirate  chief.  And  the  fact  that 
whatever  part  he  may  play  the  eldest  brother 
must  triumph  at  the  end  of  the  last  act  tends 


220    THE   DAY  BEFORE   YESTERDAY 

to  stereotype  the  lines  along  which  the  drama 
develops. 

As  for  the  plays  themselves,  it  must  be 
owned  that  they  cover  an  extraordinary 
extent  of  ground,  and  display  a  variety  that 
no  other  repertory  theatre  can  hope  to  equal. 
The  present  writer  has  seen  five  children 
in  one  afternoon  give  spirited  performances 
of  Aladdin,  David  and  Goliath,  an  unnamed 
drama  of  pirates,  and  the  famous  comedy  of 
teacher  and  naughty  pupils.  This  last  is 
the  standard  performance  of  Elementary 
School  girls  all  over  London,  and  to  the  dis- 
cerning critic  displays  just  those  faults  of 
sophistication  and  over-elaboration  to  which 
long  runs  at  our  theatres  have  made  us 
accustomed.  The  teacher  is  always  too 
monotonously  ill-tempered,  the  pupils  are  ill- 
behaved  beyond  all  discretion  ;  Ibsen,  one 
feels,  would  have  expressed  this  eternal 
warfare  between  youth  and  authority  in 
subtler  terms.  Sometimes,  however,  London 
children  achieve  a  really  startling  realism 
in  their  games  ;  and  the  looker-on  may 
derive  a  considerable  knowledge  of  the 
mothers  from  watching  the  children  perform 


CHILDREN'S   DRAMA  221 

in  some  such  drama  of  life  as  the  ever- 
popular  "  Shopping  on  Saturday  Night."  It 
may  be  noted  here  that  children's  rhapsodies 
over  dolls  and  kittens,  or,  indeed,  over 
anything,  are  always  clever  pieces  of 
character-acting.  Naturally,  children  do  not 
rhapsodise,  but  they  soon  learn  the  secret  of 
the  art  from  observation  of  their  elders. 

But  though  in  large  towns  the  poorer 
children  may  not  have  escaped  the  spirit  of 
the  age,  so  that  their  art  hardly  raises  them 
from  the  grey  levels  of  their  lives,  children 
in  general  are  eager  to  find  the  artistic 
symbol  for  their  dreams,  and  allow  realism 
but  an  accidental  share  in  the  expression  of 
their  romantic  ideals.  They  do  not  seek 
the  materials  for  their  dramas  in  the  little 
comedies  and  tragedies  of  nursery  or  school- 
room life ;  they  prefer  to  forget  that 
ordinary  everyday  happenings  have  ever 
wooed  them  to  tributary  laughters  or  tears, 
and  fulfil  their  destiny  as  pirates  or  high- 
waymen, fairies  or  forlorn  princesses. 

Probably  the  nearest  approach  to  children's 
drama  that  we  have  on  the  modern  stage 
is  the  so-called  cloak-and-sword  drama. 


222    THE   DAY   BEFORE   YESTERDAY 

Children's  plays  are  full  of  action  ;  speeches 
are  short  and  emphatic,  and  attempts  at 
character-acting  are  desultory  and  provoca- 
tive of  laughter  in  the  other  members  of 
the  company.  The  fights  are  always  carried 
out  with  spirit  and  enthusiasm.  To  have 
seen  Captain  Shark,  that  incarnadined  pirate, 
wiping  his  sword  on  his  pinafore  is  to  have 
realised  that  beauty  of  violence  for  which 
Mr.  Chesterton  pleads  so  eloquently  in  the 
"Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill." 

Bearing  in  mind  the  nature  of  the  dramas 
that  children  play  to  please  themselves,  it 
should  be  possible  to  lay  down  certain  rules 
as  to  the  composition  of  plays  for  their  enter- 
tainment. Working  by  light  of  Stevenson's 
lantern,  Mr.  Barrie  has  done  good  work  in 
"  Peter  Pan,"  but  he  has  made  tremendous 
mistakes.  The  scene  on  the  pirate  ship  is 
perfect,  a  model  of  what  such  a  scene  should 
be,  with  plenty  of  fighting  and  no  burden- 
some excess  of  talk.  But  in  a  play  that  is 
essentially  a  boys'  play  Wendy  is  a  mis- 
take. There  was  no  Wendy  on  Stevenson's 
island  of  treasure,  and  her  continual  intru- 
sion into  the  story  would  not  be  tolerated 


CHILDREN'S   DRAMA  223 

in  any  nursery.  In  real  life  she  would  either 
have  had  to  discard  her  sex  and  become  a 
member  of  the  band,  or  else  have  adopted 
the  honorary  role  of  princess  and  stayed 
tactfully  in  the  background.  The  Pirate 
Chief  is  very  good— so  good,  in  fact,  that 
it  looks  very  like  an  eldest  brother's  part, 
in  which  case  he  would  have  beaten  Peter 
and  made  him  walk  the  plank.  The  end, 
though  pleasing  to  adult  minds,  is  impossible 
from  a  childish  point  of  view.  The  boys 
would  never  have  left  their  fun  of  their  own 
free  will.  The  gong  ought  to  have  sounded 
for  tea,  or  perhaps  Mr.  Darling  could  have 
returned  from  the  City  with  some  mysterious 
parcels  for  the  children  to  open.  That  is 
how  things  really  happen.  To  our  mind,  as 
we  have  said  above,  the  greatest  fault  a 
play  for  children  can  have  is  the  lack  of 
a  straightforward  plot  that  allows  of  plenty 
of  stirring  and  adventurous  action.  Children 
love  stories,  whether  they  be  make-up  stories 
of  their  own  or  real  stories  told  them  by 
some  one  else.  The  hero  of  the  play  should 
be  the  biggest  boy  acting  it ;  the  female 
characters  should  have  no  greater  share  of 


224    THE  DAY   BEFORE   YESTERDAY 

the  action  than  the  most  rudimentary  sense 
of  politeness  would  allow  them,  but  they  may 
sit  in  the  background,  mute  but  beautiful 
princesses,  as  much  as  they  like,  and  they 
are  permitted  to  comment  on  the  courage 
of  the  hero  when  occasion  offers.  Success- 
ful scenes  should  be  repeated  three  or  four 
times  till  their  possibilities  had  been  ex- 
hausted. Every  now  and  then,  if  realism  is 
desired,  nurse  or  governess  should  look 
through  the  door  and  say,  "  Children,  don't 
be  rough,"  to  which  the  whole  company  must 
reply,  "  We're  only  playing  !  "  Once  at  least 
in  the  course  of  the  play  one  of  the  smaller 
members  of  the  company  should  be  smitten 
into  tears,  to  be  comforted  by  the  princesses. 
The  actors  should  quarrel  freely  among 
themselves  and  throw  up  their  parts  every 
half-hour,  but,  on  the  whole,  they  should  all 
enjoy  themselves  enormously. 

Such  an  entertainment,  we  admit,  would 
be  intolerable  to  the  sentimental  adult ;  but 
the  criticisms  of  the  children  in  the  audience 
would  be  worth  hearing. 


CHILDHOOD    IN    RETROSPECT 

"  In  age  to  wish  for  youth  is  full  as  vain, 
As  for  a  youth  to  turn  a  child  again." 

Denham. 

IT  is  to  be  supposed  that  there  are  few  men 
and  women,  who  do  not  occasionally  look 
back  on  the  days  of  their  childhood  with 
regret.  The  responsibilities  of  age  are  some- 
times so  pressing,  its  duties  so  irksome,  that 
the  most  contented  mind  must  travel  back 
with  envy  to  a  period  when  responsibilities 
were  not,  and  duties  were  merely  the  simple 
rules  of  a  pleasing  game,  the  due  keeping  of 
which  was  sure  to  entail  proportionate 
reward. 

And  this  being  so,  and  the  delights  of  the 
Golden  Age  always  being  kept  in  the  back 
of  our  mind,  as  a  favourable  contrast  to 
the  present  state  of  things,  it  is  hardly  sur- 

16  ** 


226    THE   DAY  BEFORE   YESTERDAY 

prising  that  in  course  of  time,  the  memory 
of  the  earlier  days  of  our  life  is  apt  to 
become  gilded  and  resplendent,  and  very 
unlike  the  simple,  up  and  down  April  exist- 
ence that  was  really  ours.  The  dull  wet 
days,  the  lessons  and  the  tears  are  all  for- 
gotten ;  it  is  the  sunshine  and  the  laughter 
and  the  play  that  remain.  But  it  by  no 
means  follows  that  such  hoarding  up  of 
pleasant  memories  tends  to  make  a  man  dis- 
contented with  his  lot ;  it  would  rather  seem 
that  they  impart  something  of  their  good 
humour  to  the  mind  in  which  they  are 
stored,  so  that  the  sunshine  of  former  jolly 
days  returns  to  yield  an  aftermath  of  more 
sober  joy,  and  to  help  to  light  out  our  later 
years  with  a  becoming  glow  of  cheerfulness. 
And  on  the  other  hand  you  will  find  that 
an  habitually  discontented  man  will  be  quite 
unwilling  to  own  that  the  days  of  his  youth, 
at  all  events,  were  happy. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  the  most  natural 
result  of  this  glorification  of  our  own  child- 
hood is  a  liking  for  children.  Seeing  them 
naughty  or  good,  at  work  or  at  play,  our 
minds  straightway  step  back  through  the 


CHILDHOOD  IN  RETROSPECT       227 

span  of  years  to  greet  a  little  one  who 
behaved  in  just  such  a  way ;  and  the 
sympathetic  understanding  thus  engendered, 
shows  us  the  surest  way,  both  to  manage 
children  of  our  own,  and  to  make  friends 
with  those  of  others. 

It  is  impossible  to  conceive  a  man,  bear- 
ing his  own  childhood  in  mind,  behaving 
unjustly  or  unkindly  to  a  child.  For  seeing 
that  we  perceive  in  every  child  a  more  or 
less  distinct  reflection  of  our  own  child 
nature,  such  conduct  would  be  something 
suicidal.  How  much  of  the  child  is  still 
contained  within  our  mature  mind  is  diffi- 
cult to  judge— some  people  have  much  more 
than  others.  And  it  is  these  people  who 
can  peel  off  their  experience  and  knowledge 
like  an  athlete  stripping  for  a  race,  and 
who  can  step  out  to  play  not  only  with  the 
same  spirit  and  excitement,  but  even  with 
the  same  mental  processes  as  a  child  ;  these 
are  they  who  can  readily  obtain  admission 
into  the  sacred  circle  of  child  games,  and 
who  can  fancy,  for  just  as  long  as  the  game 
lasts,  that  they  are  once  more  wandering 
in  that  fairy  garden  from  whose  easy  paths 


228    THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

of  laughter  and  innocence  our  aching  feet 
are  banished  for  ever. 

Here,  then,  is  the  cure  for  this  nostalgia 
of  childhood,  which  seizes  the  best  of  us 
from  time  to  time,  and  causes  us  to  batter 
vainly  at  fast-locked  nursery  doors,  or  to 
look  sadly  at  the  gaudy  toyshops,  robbed 
by  the  cynical  years  of  their  fit  halo.  When 
this  melancholy  falls  on  us,  and  we  who  are 
respectable  forty  feel  like  senile  eighty,  let 
us  forthwith  seek  the  company  of  little 
children,  and  so  elude  the  fatal  black  dog. 
"  Sophocles  did  not  blush  to  play  with 
children."  Why  should  we?  And  for  those 
who  are  not  fortunate  enough  to  number 
in  their  acquaintance  children  of  the  right 
age  and  humour,  here,  as  the  cookery  books 
say,  is  a  tried  receipt. 

Take  a  copy  of  Mr.  Barrie's  "  Little  White 
Bird,"  together  with  a  large  bag  of  sweets, 
and  sally  to  the  park.  The  rest  depends  on 
your  address,  but  for  a  shy  man  a  puppy 
will  prove  an  invaluable  aid  to  the  making 
of  acquaintances.  And  if,  as  has  happened 
to  ourselves,  at  the  end  of  a  delightful  after- 
noon a  little  lady  of  some  seven  years  should, 


CHILDHOOD  IN  RETROSPECT       229 

abjuring  words,  fling  her  arms  round  your 
neck  and  press  an  uncommonly  sticky  pair 
of  lips  on  a  cheek  which,  till  that  moment 
we  will  suppose  better  acquainted  with  the 
razor,  why  then,  if  not  sooner,  you  will  have 
learnt  that  the  whole  philosophy  of  grow- 
ing old  is  the  increasing  pleasure  you  can 
take  in  the  society  of  the  young ;  this,  once 
determined,  a  vista  of  most  charming  days 
lies  before  you,  and  sorrow  for  a  nursery 
cupboard  that  has  gone  into  the  Ewigkeit 
will  be  forgotten  in  helping  some  diminutive 
neighbour  to  explore  hers. 

Southey  was  really  stating  this  idea  when 
he  wrote  in  "  The  Doctor  "  that  "  A  house 
is  never  perfectly  furnished  for  enjoyment, 
unless  there  is  a  child  in  it  rising  three 
years  or  a  kitten  rising  six  weeks,"  though 
to  our  mind  the  presence  of  both  would  be 
the  ideal  arrangement,  since  the  kitten  would 
take  the  place  of  the  puppy  previously 
mentioned,  for  the  child  to  play  with. 

If  we  wish  to  support  age  kindly,  it  is 
only  to  be  done  by  surrounding  ourselves 
with  youth.  And  the  laughter  of  children, 
surely  the  purest  and  sweetest  of  all  music, 


230    THE  DAY  BEFORE   YESTERDAY 

will  strike  a  responsive  chord  in  our 
breasts,  and  will  enable  us  to  live  through 
the  years  that  wither,  in  all  harmony  and 
contentment. 


THE    FOLLY    OF    EDUCATION 

OF  all  the  intellectual  exercises  with  which 
we  solace  the  idle  hours  that  we  devote  to 
thought,  none  is  more  engaging  and  at  the 
same  time  perplexing  than  that  of  endeav- 
ouring to  form  a  clear  conception  of  the 
age  in  which  we  live.  Naturally  the  diffi- 
culty lies,  not  in  lack  of  materials  on  which 
to  base  an  impression— indeed,  we  are  em- 
barrassed by  the  quantity  of  evidence  that 
accumulates  to  our  hand— but  in  the  fact  that 
it  is  hard  to  see  things  in  true  perspective 
when  they  are  very  near  to  the  observer. 
The  yet  unborn  historians  of  the  present 
era  will  doubtless  lack  much  of  our  know- 
ledge, but  they  will  be  able  to  unravel  in 
the  quietude  of  their  studies  the  tangled 
threads  and  stubborn  knots  that  writhe 
beneath  our  fingers  with  the  perpetual 
changeableness  and  uneasy  animation  of  life 

231 


232    THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

itself.  But  if  it  is  impossible  to  write  dis- 
passionately of  a  revolution  while  men  are 
dying  at  the  barricades  and  musket -balls  are 
marring  the  bland  uniformity  of  the  wall- 
paper of  the  room  in  which  we  write,  it  is 
always  open  to  the  student  of  life  to  fall 
back  on  impressionism,  the  form  of  art  that 
seeks  to  bludgeon  life  with  a  loaded  phrase, 
rather  than  to  woo  her  to  captivity  with 
chosen  and  honied  words.  And  the  brutal 
method  is  apt  to  prove  the  more  efficacious, 
as  with  that  frail  sex  that  kisses,  so  I  am 
told,  the  masculine  hand  that  grants  the 
accolade  of  femininity  in  that  blessed  state 
of  bruiser  and  bruised  that  is  Nature's 
highest  conception  of  the  relationship  of  the 
two  sexes.  While  science  greets  the  corpse 
with  incomprehensible  formulae  and  the  con- 
scientious artist  gropes  for  his  note-book  of 
epithets  to  suit  occasions,  impressionism 
stops  her  dainty  nose  with  her  diminutive 
square  of  perfumed  silk,  and  the  dog  is  dead 
indeed. 

We  are  all  born  impressionists,  and  it 
takes  the  education  of  years  to  eradicate  the 
gift  from  our  natures  ;  many  people  never 


THE  FOLLY  OF  EDUCATION        233 

lose  the  habit  of  regarding  life  in  this  queer, 
straightforward  fashion,  and  go  to  their 
graves  obstinately  convinced  that  grass  is 
green  and  the  sky  is  blue  in  dogged  oppo- 
sition to  the  scientists,  didactic  dramatists, 
eminent  divines,  philosophers,  aesthetic  poets, 
and  human  beings  born  blind.  Some  of 
these  subtle  weavers  of  argument  would  have 
us  believe  that  impressionism  means  just  the 
converse  of  the  sense  in  which  I  am  using 
the  word  ;  that,  for  instance,  the  fact  that 
grass  is  green  comes  to  us  from  indirect 
sources,  as  that  of  our  own  natures  we  would 
perceive  it  to  be  red  or  blue.  But  while 
we  believe  our  impressions  to  be  our  own, 
we  know  that  this  theory  has  reached  us 
indirectly,  so  we  can  well  afford  to  ignore  it. 
Others,  again,  will  have  it  that  impressions 
are  not  to  be  trusted  ;  and  the  majority  of 
people,  while  rejecting  or  failing  to  com- 
prehend the  philosophic  basis  on  which  this 
doubt  is  founded,  are  only  too  willing  to 
accept  a  theory  that  relieves  them  in  some 
way  of  responsibility  for  their  own  indi- 
vidual actions.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  tell- 
ing a  man  to  mistrust  his  impressions  is 


234    THE   DAY  BEFORE   YESTERDAY 

like  bidding  a  mariner  despise  his  compass. 
If  our  senses  lie  to  us,  we  must  live,  per- 
force, in  a  world  of  lies. 

But  as  I  hinted  above,  the  young  are  wont 
to  rely  on  their  impressions  from  the 
moment  when  a  baby  first  parts  its  lips  in 
howling  criticism  of  life.  Children  have 
implicit  faith  in  the  evidence  of  their  senses 
until  the  grown-up  people  come  along  and 
tell  grimy  stories  of  perjured  eyes  and  lying 
ears,  and  the  unhappy  fate  of  the  unwise 
babes  who  trusted  them.  What  is  a  child 
to  do?  Usually  it  accepts  the  new  theory  of 
its  own  inherent  blindness  and  deafness 
grudgingly,  but  it  accepts  it  nevertheless.  It 
begins  to  rely  on  the  experience  of  older 
human  beings,  as  if  the  miracle  of  its  own 
life  were  no  more  than  the  toneless  repeti- 
tion of  other  lives  that  have  been  before  it. 
Wonder  passes  from  its  life,  as  joy  passes 
from  pencil  and  paper  when  the  little  fingers 
are  made  to  follow  certain  predestined  lines, 
instead  of  tracing  the  fancies  of  the  moon. 
The  child  becomes  sensible,  obedient,  quick 
at  its  lessons.  It  learns  the  beauty  of  the 
world  from  pictures  and  the  love  of  its 


THE   FOLLY  OF  EDUCATION        235 

mother  from  books.  In  course  of  time  its 
senses  become  atrophied  through  disuse,  and 
it  can,  in  truth,  no  longer  see  or  hear. 
When  this  stage  is  reached  the  education  of 
the  individual  is  completed,  and  all  civilisa- 
tion's requirements  are  satisfied. 

I  have  described  an  extreme  case,  and  the 
judicious  reader  will  realise  that  the  process 
is  rarely  completed  in  so  short  a  time  as 
the  last  paragraph  suggests.  But  sooner  or 
later  most  men  and  women  come  to  believe 
in  experience,  and  to  this  belief  is  due  our 
tyrannous  treatment  of  the  young.  I  can 
conceive  that  an  age  will  come  that  will 
shrink  with  horror  from  the  excesses  we 
commit  in  the  name  of  education,  and  will 
regard  us  who  force  children  to  do  their 
lessons  against  their  will  very  much  in  the 
way  in  which  we  regard  the  slave -owners 
of  the  past,  only  with  added  indignation  that 
our  tyranny  is  imposed  on  the  children's 
minds,  and  not  on  the  bodies  of  adults.  Let 
those  conservative  readers  who  find  this 
comparison  a  little  strained  reflect  for  a 
moment  on  what  it  is  that  we  have  to  teach 
the  next  generation,  with  what  manner  of 


236    THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

wisdom  we  chain  the  children's  imaginations 
and  brand  their  minds.  We  teach  them  in 
the  first  place  to  express  themselves  in 
sounds  that  shall  be  intelligible  to  us,  and 
this,  I  suppose,  is  necessary,  though  I  should 
like  to  doubt  it.  Further,  we  invariably 
instruct  them  in  the  sciences  of  reading  and 
writing,  which  seems  to  me  frankly  unfor- 
tunate. In  Utopia,  as  I  conceive  it,  the  child 
who  thought  there  was  anything  worth  read- 
ing would  teach  itself  to  read,  as  many 
children  have  done  before  it,  and  in  the 
same  way  the  rarer  child  who  desired  to 
express  itself  on  paper  would  teach  itself 
to  write.  That  any  useful  purpose  is  served 
by  the  general  possession  of  this  knowledge 
I  cannot  see.  Even  civilisation  cannot 
rejoice  that  her  children  are  able  to  read 
the  Sunday  newspapers  and  scrawl  gutter 
sentiments  on  the  walls  of  churches. 

Beyond  this  we  teach  children  geography, 
which  robs  the  earth  of  its  charm  of  unex- 
pectedness and  calls  beautiful  places  by  ugly 
names  ;  history,  which  chronicles  inaccurate 
accounts  of  unimportant  events  in  the  ears 
of  those  who  would  be  better  employed  in 


THE  FOLLY  OF  EDUCATION        237 

discovering  the  possibilities  of  their  own 
age  j  arithmetic,  which  encourages  the 
human  mind  to  set  limits  to  the  infinite ; 
botany,  which  denotes  the  purposeless  vivi- 
section of  flowers  ;  chemistry,  which  is  no 
more  than  an  indelicate  unveiling  of  matter  ; 
and  a  hundred  other  so-called  arts  and 
science,  which,  when  examined  without  pre- 
judice, will  be  found  to  have  for  their 
purpose  the  standardisation  and  ultimate 
belittlement  of  life. 

In  Utopia,  the  average  human  being  would 
not  know  how  to  read  or  write,  would  have 
no  knowledge  of  the  past,  and  would  know 
no  more  about  life  and  the  world  in  general, 
than  he  had  derived  from  his  own  impres- 
sions. The  sum  of  those  impressions  would 
be  the  measure  of  his  wisdom,  and  I  think 
that  the  chances  are  that  he  would  be  a 
good  deal  less  ignorant  than  he  is  now,  when 
his  head  is  full  of  confused  ideas  borrowed 
from  other  men  and  only,  half -comprehended. 
I  think  that  our  system  of  education  is  bad, 
because  it  challenges  the  right  of  the  indi- 
vidual to  think  constructively  for  himself. 
In  rustic  families,  where  the  father  and 


238    THE   DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

mother  have  never  learnt  to  read  and  the 
children  have  had  the  advantages  of 
"scholarship,"  the  illiterate  generation  will 
always  be  found  to  have  more  intelligence 
than  their  educated  descendants.  The 
children  were  learning  French  and  arith- 
metic when  they  should  have  been  learning 
life. 

And,  after  all,  this  is  the  only  kind  of 
education  that  counts.  We  all  know  that 
a  man's  knowledge  of  Latin  or  the  use  of 
the  globes  does  not  affect  his  good-fellow- 
ship, or  his  happiness,  or  even  the  welfare 
of  the  State  as  a  whole.  What  is  important 
is,  that  he  should  have  passed  through 
certain  experiences,  felt  certain  emotions, 
and  dreamed  certain  dreams,  that  give  his 
personality  the  stamp  of  a  definite  individual 
existence.  Tomlinson,  the  book-made  man, 
with  his  secondhand  virtues  and  secondhand 
sins,  is  of  no  use  to  any  one.  Yet  while  we 
all  realise  this,  we  still  continue  to  have  a 
gentle,  unreasoning  faith  in  academic  edu- 
cation ;  we  still  hold  that  a  man  should 
temper  his  own  impressions  with  the 
experience  of  others. 


ON    COMMON    SENSE 

ABOUT  this  time  last  year  I  was  fortunate 
enough  to  go  to  a  very  nice  children's  party, 
or,  rather,  a  very  nice  party  for  children. 
I  add  the  appreciative  epithet  because  there 
was  only  one  grown-up  person  there,  and 
that  person  was  not  I  ;   and  when  all  is  said 
it  may  be  stated  confidently  that  the  fewer 
the  grown-ups  the  better  the  children's  party. 
Nevertheless,   although  there  was   only  one 
grown-up  for  about  thirty  children,  and  she 
the   most   charming   and   tactful   of   girls,   I 
had  not  been  long  in  the  place  of  fairy-lamps 
before  I  discovered  that  with  one  exception 
I   was   the  youngest   person   there.      I    had 
come   out   that   night   in   the   proper    party 
frame  of  mind.     My  shoes  were  tight  and 
my  mind  was  full  of  riddles  of  which  I  had 
forgotten  the  answers,  and  as  I  drove  along 
in  a  four-wheeler — who  ever  went  to  a  party 


240    THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

in  anything  else? — I  noticed  that  the  stars 
smelt  of  tangerine  oranges.  When  I  reached 
the  house  everything  looked  all  right.  The 
place  was  very  busy,  and  there  were  lots  of 
white  frocks  and  collars,  and  pink  faces. 

Yes,  it  ought  to  have  been  a  jolly  party, 
but  it  came  about  twenty  years  too  late,  and 
the  children,  I  had  almost  added,  were  about 
twenty  years  too  old.  Instead  of  forgetting 
everything  else  in  the  whirl  and  clamour 
of  play  and  dancing,  they  were,  it  seemed 
to  me,  too  busy  registering  the  impressions 
to  enjoy  themselves.  One  of  them,  a  child 
of  eleven,  was  already  smitten  with  a  passion 
for  the  mot  juste.  "My  tongue,"  she  told 
me  gravely,  "  is  like  a  cloud  "  ;  and,  later, 
"a  marigold  is  like  a  circus."  She  had  a 
crushing  word  for  a  comrade  who  was  look- 
ing at  herself  in  a  mirror.  "  But  you  don't 
really  look  as  nice  as  you  do  in  the  looking- 
glass  !  "  The  other  children  did  not  seem 
much  better,  and  I  stood  forlornly  in  their 
midst,  as  a  child  stands  among  the  creased 
trouser-legs  of  its  elders,  until  I  saw  a  scared 
little  face  in  a  corner  apart  from  the  rest. 
"Why  aren't  you  playing?"  I  asked.  The 


ON  COMMON  SENSE  241 

child  looked  me  straight  in  the  face,  and 
burst  into  a  thousand  tears.  At  least  here 
was  something  young,  something  not  wholly 
wise.  We  sat  together,  exchanging  grave 
confidences  all  the  evening. 

Possibly  this  is  a  queer  way  in  which  to 
start  an  article  on  common  sense,  but  there 
is  more  than  madness  in  my  method,  for  I 
feel  assured  that  the  children  have  derived 
their  new  wisdom — a  senseless  wisdom,  a 
wisdom  of  facts — from  their  absurd  parents. 
The  latest  creed,  the  belief  that  comfort  for 
the  masses  prevents  remorse  in  the  indi- 
vidual, may  be  well  enough  in  its  way,  but 
it  creates  a  very  bad  atmosphere  in  which 
to  bring  up  children.  They  are  taught  that 
life  is  an  agglomeration  of  facts,  and  no 
sort  of  miracle,  and  by  learning  these  facts 
like  little  parrots  they  lose  the  whole  thrill 
and  adventure  of  life.  They  do  not  go  out 
to  kill  dragons,  because  they  know  that  there 
are  no  dragons  there.  Chivalry  survived 
with  children  long  after  common  sense  had 
killed  it  as  dead  as  mutton  in  the  adult  mind. 
But  now  they,  too,  have  found  it  out,  and 
there  are  only  a  few  silly  poets  and  mad 

17 


242    THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

lovers  to  keep  the  memory  of  Quixote 
green. 

What  are  these  facts  by  which  we  are 
to  guide  our  lives,  of  which,  indeed,  our 
lives  are  to  consist?  One  of  the  simplest, 
one  that  has  come  to  have  the  force  of  a 
proverbial  expression,  is  the  fact  that  two 
and  two  make  four,  and  this  is  one  of  the 
first  things  we  teach  our  children. 

I  have  a  friend  who  suspects  that  in 
moments  of  intense  consciousness  two  and 
two,  weary  of  making  four,  would  make  five 
for  a  change.  I  have  heard  it  argued  against 
him  by  mathematicians  that  the  fourness  of 
four— four's  very  existence,  as  it  were — de- 
pends on  its  being  related  to  two  in  the  subtle 
fashion  suggested  by  the  well-known  dogma, 
but  I  can  discern  no  grounds  for  this  asser- 
tion. Consider  the  fate  that  would  befall 
a  man  who  went  for  a  ride  on  an  omnibus 
for  the  purpose  of  making  use  of  this  one 
fact.  He  might  be  aware  that  the  fare  to 
Putney  was  fourpence,  and,  proud  of  his 
mathematical  knowledge,  might  pay  his  fare 
in  two  instalments  of  twopence.  What 
would  be  his  consternation  to  find  that,  as 


ON  COMMON  SENSE  243 

he  reached  his  journey's  end,  he  would  have 
to  pay  another  penny  because  he  had  not 
paid  his  fourpence  in  one  lump  sum?  In 
terms  of  'bus  fares,  two  and  two  do  not 
make  four,  and  I  would  multiply  examples 
of  such  exceptions  to  the  accepted  rule. 

But  even  if  two  and  two  really  did  make 
four,  the  fact  would  remain  supremely  use- 
less. However  cunningly  it  was  conveyed, 
the  statement  would  not  abate  one  tear  from 
the  sorrows  of  a  child,  nor  would  it  brighten, 
even  for  an  instant,  the  eyes  of  a  dying  man. 
You  could  not  win  a  girl  with  it,  because 
the  man  who  counts  his  kisses  is  damned 
from  the  start.  A  poet  could  not  turn  it 
into  song  ;  it  would  draw  no  briefest  flame 
from  the  ashes  of  a  storyteller's  fire.  The 
thing  is  cold,  inhuman ;  it  is  made  for 
lawyers  and  politicians,  and  the  persons  who 
argue  their  lives  away  on  matters  of  no  im- 
portance. We  who  are  simpler  never  put 
two  and  two  together  for  the  purpose  of 
making  four,  for  four  is  of  no  more  use  to 
us  than  a  nice  brace  of  twos.  The  infinite 
is  the  answer  of  all  our  mathematical 
problems,  and  if  we  cannot  find  it  we  are 


quick  to  sponge  the  sum  off  our  slates.  The 
belief  that  two  and  two  make  four  leads 
most  people  to  think  four  a  better  fellow 
than  two  ;  to  hold,  for  instance,  that  a  man 
with  four  millions  must  be  richer  than  a 
man  with  two,  though  the  groans  of  our 
pauper  millionaires  never  cease  to  admonish 
our  national  cupidity.  Two  and  two  make 
just  what  your  heart  can  compass,  neither 
more  nor  less,  and,  if  your  unit  is  worth- 
less, they  make  nothing  at  all. 

Facts  are  worse  than  useless,  for  they  limit 
the  journeys  of  the  human  mind  ;  but  there 
is  a  common  sense  not  founded  on  facts  that 
represents  the  extreme  limits  of  our  intel- 
lectual pilgrimages.  It  is  common  only  in 
this :  it  is  true  for  all  humanity  when 
humanity  is  wise  enough  to  accept  it. 
Shakespeare  had  it  deliciously,  and  even 
now  we  are  only  beginning  to  learn  the 
things  he  knew.  For  instance — 

"We  are  such  stuff  as  dreams  are  made  of, 
And  our  little  life  is  rounded  with  a  sleep." 

This  seems  more  wisely  true  to  us  to-day 
than  it  did  to  the  men  and  women  of  his 


ON  COMMON  SENSE  245 

age,  but  it  was   as  true  when  he  wrote   it 
as  it  is  now.     Or  again — 

"  Men  must  abide 

Their  going  hence  even  as  their  coming  hither, 
Ripeness  is  all." 

This  is  the  true  common  sense — all  that 
we  know,  all  that  we  shall  know  ;  but  this 
is  not  the  thing  that  we  teach  the  children 
in  our  schools,  nor  is  it  the  light  by  which 
most  of  us  guide  our  lives.  We  invent  trivial 
rules  and  conventions  to  belittle  the  life 
we  have  to  lead,  and  make  marks  in  the 
dust  with  our  fingers  to  cheat  an  uncheatable 
fate.  We  add  illusion  to  illusion  in  coward 
hopes  of  outliving  the  greatest  illusion  of 
all.  We  add  folly  to  folly,  and  lie  to  lie, 
and  are  content  that  the  results  of  our 
labours  should  be  unwisdom  and  untruth. 
We  add  two  to  two  and  worship  the  mournful 
constancy  of  four. 

I  began  my  article  on  common  sense  with 
a  children's  party  ;  I  must  end  it,  I  suppose, 
somewhere  within  the  limits  of  our  unhoping 
lives.  When  the  night  of  a  hundred  kisses 
draws  to  a  close,  and  Dawn,  with  her  painted 


246    THE  DAY   BEFORE  YESTERDAY 

smile,  creeps  like  a  spy  into  the  room,  men 
and  women  believe  that  they  can  see  things 
as  they  really  are.  The  earth  is  grey  to 
their  eyes,  though  not  more  grey  than  their 
own  tired  flesh,  and  their  little  hearts  are 
quick  to  believe  that  grey  is  the  normal 
colour  of  life.  The  sun  comes  up  and  tints 
the  world  with  rose,  and  they  forget  their 
sorrow,  as  they  have  so  often  forgotten  it 
before,  and  go  their  boasting  way  through 
the  world  they  believe  their  own.  Around 
them,  in  the  light  that  is  not  the  sun's,  the 
shadows  tremble — shadows  of  the  dead, 
shadows  of  the  yet  unborn.  The  wise 
cannot  tell  them  apart. 


THE    END 


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